


Twelve Nights

by Louzeyre



Series: Miss Veronica Mars and Lord Logan [2]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-09-27 13:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louzeyre/pseuds/Louzeyre
Summary: A Christmastide Mystery within the world of Exposition & Excerpts: While Miss Veronica Mars celebrates her first Christmas Season back in Norton and attached but not with Lord Logan she is asked by a neighbour to find a secret admirer with possibly less than proprietous intentions.





	1. Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Don't Worry! I am planning to continue adding to Expositions & Excerpts (if anyone is worried that is)! But I wanted to write a seasonal story and I thought I would test out my mystery writing muscle. This story takes place several months after the 5th chapter of E & E ends. There is, I admit, also a bit of an homage to one of my favorite Christmas Mysteries. I hope you enjoy it!

Veronica Mars had had always had fondness for the Christmastide and its customs, even (and sometimes especially) those seen by some as out of fashion, rustic or even irreligious: Decorating the house in fancy paper, holly, rosemary, bay and laurel. Mistletoe. Kissing bowers. Well, perhaps not Mistletoe and kissing bowers in all instances, but certainly games. Gatherings. Mince pies and plum pudding. Particularly plum pudding.

 

Lady Kane had, of course, always insisted that the celebrations at Reed hall were modern, tasteful and proper, but Veronica’s own family, had held their own private, celebrations during her childhood. And on several occasions, she been invited to some of the festivities at Oakhollow Abbey as well.

 

The Baroness Logan had loved Christmas.

 

The Logans were an old family. She did not mean in the sense that is so often talked about, that they had received a writ of summons to parliament during the reign of some King Edwards or Henry to gain their Barony, or been have done this or that for an another royal. But in that they took a certain joy and pride, in remembering and honor customs that were far older than that, even those that had fallen out of favor. This, combined with Sir Aarons tendency towards ostentation and exhibition, had led to a weeks long celebration at the Abbey starting with gathering greenery and lighting a yule log on Christmas Eve and ending with the Twelfth Night Ball.

 

Of all the customs and rites of the season, however, the one most precious to her in childhood, however, had been the school holiday and the boys’ return home. Lady Lillias and Logan had always seemed as if they were attempting to fit a half year of mischief and merriment into those few short weeks.Veronica’s memories of her childhood Christmas’ were forever entangled with her friendship with Logan, Lady Lillias and her brother.

 

There was perhaps an irony in her finally, truly, returning to Norton, only for her first Christmas to be while Lord Logan was on the continent.

 

Since his departure she had received his letters with all the regularity and punctuality one may expect from a wartime correspondence. That is to say none. It was clear that Logan did write to her often. More so, she suspected, than she herself could have done so had their situation been reversed, but there would be weeks without a letter, only for several to arrive all at once, and often of those letters she did receive, the contents would indicate one or more had been lost in between. Today, like many over the last few months, she made her way back to collect the post and returned without any word from him.

 

Even so, he had managed indirectly to make her Christmas a bit merrier. While his estate was still let, Logan had evidently reserved hunting rights on his land as part of the lease. Since the start of the hunting season, the Abbey’s gamekeeper had regularly brought her and her father birds to help to stretch their already overextended funds. Today he had brought an additional brace of partridges, and in so doing eased her worries as to the Christmas dinner she had invited the Fennels to the following night.

 

She was making her way back from buying the last few items she hoped she would need for this celebration, when her one of her father’s neighbours ---- one of her neighbours --- succeeding in catching her notice. The girl, a Miss Seymour Veronica recalled, was perhaps nineteen and seemed more agitated than happy herself, even as she and Veronica exchanged Happy Christmases.

 

“I was hoping.” Miss Seymour began. “I was hoping you might be able to help me? I have heard that you can find thing? I do not have a great deal of money…”

“Why do you not tell me what it is you would like me to do and I can see if I can help you?” Veronica suggested. Feel, perhaps, a bit of the season's generosity. The girl nodded.

 

“I found a Twelfth Cake by the door this morning, addressed to me, but with without the name of who had sent it.” Veronica smiled slightly.

 

“And you wish for me to discover who your admirer is?”

 

“No.” Miss Seymour replied abruptly, “I mean yes,” she paused, considering a moment. “Perhaps it might be better to show you? Could you come in.” She said finally, with a gesture towards her father’s shop.

 

Veronica made a gesture herself towards her packages, but agreed to come over as soon as she had put away her shopping. A few minutes later, she was let in and led up the stairs to Seymour’s small sitting room.

 

After inviting Veronica to sit and explaining the discovering of a note along with the cake, Miss Seymour handed Veronica a small piece of paper then excused herself, evidently to get the cake itself.

 

The message was simple. A declaration of affection for Miss Seymour and a request that she would save the first two dances at the public assembly to be held on Twelfth Night for him. Evidently, he did not see the need for her have his name to affix it upon her dance card. The note was written in a slightly unsteady hand, with enough misspellings to suggest the writer, while certainly literate, had most likely had not become so through consistent, formal education, but no other information that might his lead to his identity was readily apparently.

 

Miss Seymour then returned with over a wax paper covered package and set it down on the small table between them.

 

“I was not sure what to do, so I simply wrapped it back up.” She explained, then peeled away the paper to reveal a cake with only one slice cut away from it.

 

The outside of the cake not dissimilar to any of those now displayed in a number of confectioner’s windows throughout Norton. Neither was the interior, excepting one particular: still half set into the part of the cake revealed through cutting away of the first slice was a ring, at the heart of which was a large red jewel.

 

It was intricate. It was beautiful. It was readily apparent as valuable. Which was, of course, Miss Seymour’s dilemma. For it was far too valuable to be given away in such a manner. Certainly, far too valuable a gift for the propriety of both the gift, and the giver intentions not to be gravely in question. And, perhaps most troubling, it far too valuable for all but few of men now in Norton to have obtained legally.


	2. Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I am quite a bit behind on this story. I am planning on plodding along on it, however, and most likely alternating chapters with E&E. I hope people still enjoy it, even if it is gradually become more and more out of season.

Veronica was a wonderer. She could not help but be curious. She justified this curiosity, in this case, with the fact that she both wanted to be amiable with her neighbours, and did not want Miss Seymour to suffer do to a possible thief’s attachment to her. Therefore, she agreed to assist Miss Seymour at a reduced fee, one that she suspected would be worked out either in kind from her father’s store and in assistance with the numerous household duties that seemed to continually put off in the Mars household.

 

There was not much more that could be done so late on Christmas Eve, but Miss Seymour allowed Veronica to wrap the cake up once more and take both it and the note home for further examination.

 

The note, aside from revealing, through its torn edges, that it had once been part of a larger sheet, divulged no more information. No watermarks, no discernible writing on the reverse, not even a secret message or a spot of disappearing ink. The wrap and string remained equally anonymous.

 

Veronica and Miss Mackenzie each used the last of the day’s good light to sketch the decorations on the outside of the cake, in the hopes that between the two of them they would be able to catch some detail that might eventually lead to an identification through comparison with the multitude of cakes presently on display and being gifted and eaten throughout Norton.

 

Both the Misters Fennel, when they arrived to help with decorations, volunteered to sample the cake in a similar hope that there might be either something obviously unique in the recipe or so that they might be able to discern its origin through later comparison.

 

Even to their discerning palates, however, the cake seemed only to be a rather good example of a fairly standard great cake (aside of course from its bejewelled addition): white sugar, spices (cloves, mace, cinnamon and nutmeg most likely), with the only variation being sweetmeats that included not only currents, raisons and candied lemon peel but several larger pieces that, after some discussion, were concluded to be dried apricot and prunes.

 

They had volunteered to take additional samples, simply to better serve the inquire of course, but Veronica had eventually decided that she should return some of the cake to the Seymours.

 

Once the ring was removed from its sweet casing, it proved similarly silent. While it would be impossible to say any piece of jewellery as fine and dear as the ring was anything other than unique, its singularity was not of the sort which enabled Veronica herself to discern its creator or owner. No lover’s engraving around the band. No makers mark.

 

After this initial inspection, Veronica concluded it would be best to set the ring aside to inspect in the better light of the next day and concentrate on the process of preparing for the next day.

 

****

 

Christmas Day dawned seasonably cold. Cold enough that Veronica was simply grateful, rather than slightly guilty and vexed that Miss Mackenzie had risen before her to start the fire and bring up warm water enough for both their ablutions. After they had each helped each other into their stays, and placed as many layers of petticoats and stockings as could comfortably sit under their dresses, Veronica moved to check in on her father before Miss Mackenzie joining Miss Mackenzie downstairs to wait for the carriage.

 

When Logan had offered her the use of his horses and carriage while he was gone, she had, at first, protested. Even given their current understanding it seemed too generous an offer. Logan had argued that the horses and equipage would still need to be cared for and maintained and the coachman and groom receive their wages regardless of whether they were made use of or not; they would be no use to him, but it would give him some satisfaction, and the horses some exercise, if they made use of by her.

 

Veronica had allowed herself to be prevailed upon. And while she could only claim selfish enjoyment in her own now regular rides, the carriage at least she could justify as a necessity concession for her father. For some time after his injuries, the only way her father could be moved would be through the use a carriage, and for some time after that, even once his bones and flesh had knit back together, long walks were still wearying. Even now she knew that cold weather, such as they were having, brought aches and stiffness as undesirable reminders of not just this most recent injury, but also the many more acquired over his lifetime.

 

Nonetheless she still felt awkward each time the extravagant and out of place equipage stopped outside her father’s house. Upon today’s arrival Veronica forced herself to meet it, and alloyed her guilt somewhat by given the coachmen and confessedly small gift she had selected for him for St. Stephen’s Day.

 

Demeter and Fides, the dove-coloured matching pair, look, as they always did, as if they were themselves embarrassed and slightly vexed to be pulling the sensible closed carriage rather than the dark blue curricle Lord Logan for preferred when not riding. She snuck them each a small treat in a most likely vain attempt to gain their affection before Mackenzie and her father arrived and they all took their places inside for the rather short journey to St. Cyprian Church, slightly to the north of Norton proper.

 

Today, even many of the most recalcitrant of Norton’s inhabitants would be finding their way either to the parish church, or to the small catholic chapel built not long after the relief act a decade ago. That did not mean the church would be full. Christmas was a country house holiday, one where those within society retired to their own estates rather than a seaside resort, and St. Cyprian had been built to a far grander scale than its current parish, absent visitors, truly called for, but there would still be enough of a press that if they wished to gain their favoured seats they would best arrive early.

 

Her presumptive connection to the family may have allowed her to use either the Logan-Leister family box or even that which was reserved for the rector’s own family, and she had availed herself of these a few of times when her father had first attended with her after his injuries. Both she and her father preferred, however, to sit in the gallery. First, because of the company. Second, because of the view.

 

Even the best situated pew box with rather low walls could only allow the occupant to see a few of the fellow boxes. From the gallery, however, one could see down into each box, as well, if not better, than the rector himself. Today she had two hopes for the view. One, of course, was to observe the congregation in service of Miss Seymours case. The other was more personal and, confessedly, petty.

 

For as long as Veronica could remember, Lady Kane had been vexed by the fact that the rectory of St. Cyprian lay within the gift of the Logan-Leister family. This was especially true as, due to the natural ebb and flow of fortunes between families, the entire glebe along with rectory itself, lay bounded by the Kane’s land. The current appointment, made only a few years ago by her own Lord Logan, could only make this agitation far greater. But today Lady Kane would be sure to attend, regardless of such feelings --- and it would be the first occasion that Veronica herself would have to observe her doing so.

 

Unfortunately, the universe, as if in response to these less than pure motives, almost immediately thwarted her. Upon reaching St. Cyprians, the party helped each other out of the carriage and, after speaking with a few acquaintances lingering near the entry, made their way inside. At their entrance, however, Mr. Stone, standing, as he was wont, in the aisle near his pulpit gestured for the party to take a seat in his box just to its side. Veronica wondered a moment if she could pretend to have not seen the motion, but ultimately conceded she did not want to offend one of the few remaining decent members of Logan’s family, especially when he was mostly attempting to perform a good service for her father. So, after giving a wistful view towards the gallery, she made her way to the box, bringing both Miss Mackenzie and her father along with her.

 

Once they had reached the box, they were surprised as Mr. Stone followed them in, leaning over as he spoke, as if attempting to hide the conversation from the rest of the congregants.

 

“I had thought it best to tell you,” he said, then stopped as if considering for a moment, “although you many already know of course. I am not presuming,” He stopped again before seeming to come to a decision and continuing, “Sir Aaron’s former ward is in Norton.”

 

Veronica unconsciously looked towards the pew with the Leister-Logan arms painted on the door. It was empty.

 

After the first Lady Echolls had concluded she would have no more children with her second husband than she had with her first, she had taken in a foundling as her ward. After Lady Echolls’ death, much to the surprise of anyone who knew his true character, Sir Aaron had continued to maintain the girl. He had even arranged what was, given her situation, was a very advantageous marriage. True her husband was a third son and over 20 years her senior but between the two of them they had an income large enough to live on more than comfortably. More importantly, as far as someone so removed can know such thing, neither Veronica nor Logan had had any reason to believe he had given her the sort of ill treatment that Sir Aaron had visited on his own wife and son. The most objectionable treatment at least. He had died while in conversation with his mistress.

 

“She called upon me on Thursday.” Mr. Stone explained, then considered. “I gained the impression she had planned to stay at the Abbey.”

 

“But the Abbey’s let,” Veronica could not help rely with some small astonishment. “And Lord Logan is in the Peninsula.” Mr. Stone gave a resigned shrug.

 

Careless would be the word Veronica would say was the most apt to describe the woman who was, the closest Logan had to a sister. She did not mean to cause harm, she certainly didn’t do so meanly, she simply didn’t notice or care about her actions, or the worlds in general, further than they affected her.

 

“I had thought she may have moved on once she understood…” He paused a moment as if unsure how to tactfully continue.

 

“That she would have to pay for lodging.” Veronica finished for him. He gave a grimace and nodded slightly.

 

“Just so. But one of my parishioners mentioned having seen her yesterday. I didn’t know whether she had called on you yet, but,” He gave another shrug.

 

For a moment Veronica felt an odd mixture of relief (for herself) and offense (for Logan) that she hadn’t received a call. Sense, and therefore relief, quickly won out however. Logan would not wish such a visit on her anyhow.

 

“Thank you.” Forewarned was Forearmed, after all. Especially when the individual in question was somewhat unpredictable. Mr. Stone gave another nod in understanding back before backing out of the box and hurrying up to the pulpit.

 

****

 

“When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit,” Veronica read aloud. Dinner had been eaten. The small table and its makeshift extension removed back to the kitchen, and their small party warm and drowsy in the Mars’ sitting room, gathered round for one tradition Veronica had a particular fondness for: charades.

 

“And my second confines her to finish the piece,”

 

As feared, she could not see into the more than a few of the other boxes during the service. The Kane’s particularly seemed to have high walls. Far higher than she remembered them to be when she and Lady Lillias had attempted to hid their own mischief behind them during the services of her youth.

 

Her position had, however, afforded a somewhat better view of the gallery than she had previous thought, and she had noticed one young man she believed had given attention to Miss Seymour beyond what would expected for a pretty young woman during a long cold Christmas sermon, but he had managed to exit the gallery and vanish before she herself had navigated her way through the crowd between her seat and the door.

 

“How hard is her fate! but how great is her merit,”

 

Dinner itself had, she thought, gone well. The months of receiving and preparing birds had had its effect and, aside from a few words in jests regarding their size from her father, everyone seemed pleased with both the partridges and the food more generally. Even the Misters Fennel’s somewhat notorious appetites appeared to have been sated by the time the last of the pudding had been eaten.

 

“If by taking my whole she effect her release!” Veronica finished and looked around the room for the first guess. She was met with stares that were more sleepy than eager. Finally, Miss Mackenzie, being somewhat disposed to puzzles herself, stirred enough to make an attempted.

 

“Spin? Door? Spindle?”

 

“How would a spindle effect someone’s release from a door?”

 

“If she used it hit the person that forced her to spin over the head.” She replied flatly.

 

“Wonderful ingenuity. But not correct. Anyone else?” The large meals’ effects persisted but, after a moment, the room seemed to rally and rouse themselves.

 

“Is the first syllable sew?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who kudoed or commented! I would love any comment or criticism you have to offer. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> In case anyone was wondering:
> 
> St. Cyprian is a real saint recognized by the Church of England and there are several Churches dedicated to him. However, during the late Georgian age a Cyprian was also slang for a courtesan. I thought it appropriate for a town that tries to appear respectable but still makes its money off of the vices of others. 
> 
>  
> 
> The riddle in this chapter was written by Jane Austen. Its answer is hemlock.


	3. Boxing Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has (once again) taken an embarrassing long time to write and post. Thank you to everyone who continues to read this increasingly unseasonal story. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

The day after Christmas--- Saint Stephen’s Day or Boxing Day --- had long been the day on which servants were given _their_ holiday, along with a Christmas Box as a small compensation for their service throughout the year. While Veronica may have watched such gifts being given, she had little experience as the giver. She believed, however, that she had been successful in her selection: In the place of the more traditional, practical, gifts often found in such a box, Veronica had instead obtained for Miss Mackenzie a second hand copy of a scientific paper that she had expressed an interest in, but which seemed unlikely to gain enough general interest for a copy to be purchased by the circulating library to which the Mars family subscribed.

 

 

Veronica had suggested that Miss Mackenzie might spend the night either before or after Boxing Day with her family so that she would not have make the trip both to and from their farm in one day. Miss Mackenzie, however, had rather firmly stated that while she loved her family, and them her, she thought they were best at loving each other in small doses. So, in spite of sharing in the revels the night before, Miss Mackenzie had woken early, and set off along with several other Norton residence with families still living on the St. Clair’s estate.

 

 

With Miss Mackenzie absent, her father occupied with his own business and many shops, if open, without those most likely to able to answer her inquiries, Veronica was left to spend the day arranging and examining what information she had already obtained in the inquiries she was presently involved in.

 

 

One of the first lessons Veronica had received from her father, in approaching an inquiry or investigation, was the importance of organization. This did not necessarily mean the organization of papers and notes, but in finding a way to arrange such information, and to arrange her own thoughts, understandings and conclusions, so that patterns could be seen.

 

 

To this end, Veronica set out the now empty wrapping for the cake, the note that had accompanied it and the ring found inside it, in the area of the sitting room she had come to consider her office, examining each again in the morning light. She added to them both her own sketch of the cake’s decorations and Miss Mackenzie’s, comparing the two and making note of the small differences between them, as well as the notes she had made as to what both of the Misters Fennels had been able to taste. Then she took out a sheet of paper, pen and ink and began.

 

 

There were, in her estimation three fronts on which she could proceed with her inquiry. The first, would be to find the origin of the cake. This, however, would be best done after all those who had gone home for holiday had returned. The second was to discover the origin of the ring. This she might begin on today, for pawnbrokers and other shops which primarily served those desperate for ready funds and were willing to purchase them without regards to providence, would mostly likely not only be open on the holiday, but busy. The third from however, might not only discover the admirer’s identity more directly and could be acted on today, but, in fact, would need to be acted on today if it were to be acted on at all, and so it was where she began.

 

 

Years ago, as more and more of the fashionable set began to visit, Norton had gained a mark of its increasing prominence by gaining its own paper. The Norton Spectator was a weekly, published each Wednesdays. Therefore, holiday or not, their offices would be open today, and holiday or not she would need to hurry there if she wanted to follow through with her plan. The note delivered with cake demonstrated that the giver, or at least someone familiar with his scheme, was could read. It was Veronica’s hope that this included the Spectator’s many advertisements.

 

 

Once at the offices of the paper, she was quickly ushered towards the desk which dealt with personal advertisements. Looking around the officers she could not help but be slightly saddened. She did not recognize any of the many men hurrying around the office.

 

 

The Spectator, even during her youth, had not been without its faults, but Veronica and her father had still worked with and made use of the paper during the inquiries. It had sometimes felt to be one of their few avenues through which the truth could be relayed and its reporters almost allies. He father had developed a friendship of sorts with one of these reporters, who had later encouraged him to begin writing on his more prominent investigations in order to supplement his income.

 

 

All of those men were gone now. During the years she had been away from Norton they had superannuated or move on to other, more prominent paper, and the Spectator had become more and more cautious in its stories.

 

 

The rather harried man that did sit behind the advertisements desk distractedly quoted her the set rate per word, and gave a half-hearted grimace as she handed him the slip of paper on which she had previously written what she wished the advertisement to include.

 

 

‘Found at the corner of Adams street, one great cake, still in wax paper wrapping, along with torn note addressed to one Seymour. If the loser of said cake, please retrieve the same by applying at 6:30 Friday evening at 121 Harper Street.’

 

 

If the advertisement was successful,  not only would Veronica gain the identity of the Miss Seymour’s admirer but, by observing both his reaction to being told the original cake had been eaten, and to the offer of a substitute, Veronica hoped to judge whether he was aware of the ring’s presence within the original cake. If it wasn’t, she would still have several days to work on a different plan.

 

 

After Veronica had handed the requested fee to the man behind the desk, little more than hoping that he would be more attentive in his job than he was animated, she set out again, nowtowards the less respectable parts of Norton, to begin her second line of inquiry.

 

 

For all the notoriety of other more striking crimes, theft was still the most common crime in Norton as it was throughout England. It was therefore of no surprise that the bulk of her and her father’s business involved theft, whether finding a thief, proving their client was not the thief or finding and uniting a victim with their stolen goods.

 

 

It was also therefore also of no surprise that in spite of her long time away and short time returned, Veronica was well known to the majority the proprietors of Norton many pawnbroker’s shops.  The owner of the first of these shops Veronica entered today even seemed to be softening to her slightly --- his countenance only shifted slightly in disappointment and vexation upon seeing her enter.

 

 

“What is it now.”

 

 

“Mr. Breckinridge, I am all surprise that you would speak to a customer that way.” Veronica said with a calculated smile.

 

 

“A customer purchases items in a shop. You come in, accused me of theft and take my merchandise. Repeatedly.” The shop-keeper replied.

 

 

“Now, that is simply not true. I have never accused you of theft. I informed you that you had stolen goods for sale in your shop. I have pointed out that it seem quite odd that one so worldly as yourself could be so often deceived as to the origins of items, by Norton’s thieves. But I have never made any such accusations. Not to the local magistrate. I’ve simply given you the opportunity to help me return the goods to their rightful owner. I’ve even given you a part of the reward for their return for your efforts if I recall. Repeatedly.” Veronica raised her brow. Mr. Breckinridge gave one last unhappy sigh then placed an affected smile upon his face.   

 

 

“How may I help you Miss?” Veronica smiled back.

 

 

“I was hoping you could tell me whether you have bought or sold a particular ring before.” Veronica into her ridicule, and placed the ring in question on to the counter. Veronica knew, had she asked, he would not have been given the true value of the ring. But the brief look of unfeigned animation that darted across Mr. Breckinridge ‘s face as he turned the ring over in his hand and examined it, was all the answer she truly needed as to its value.

 

 

“That. No.” Mr. Breckinridge finally said, reluctantly giving the ring back to Veronica.  

 

 

“You came to that conclusion rather quickly. Are you sure?”

 

 

“As sure as one could be. I have run this shop many years. I cannot remember every piece that has come in.” He feigned a moment of contemplation, “I suppose I could look through my record to be certain, but that would take quite some time.” She said, raising her own brow. Veronica sighed internally, then reached back into her ridicule and slipped a small coin over to Mr. Breckinridge who smile back.

 

 

“If I were to say I wished to acquire something similar, or something that may have come from the same set, would you be able to tell me where to do so?” Veronica then asked. Mr. Breckinridge gave another knowing look. Veronica slipped another coin towards him.

 

 

“I could put out the word I suppose. See if there is anyone selling.”

 

 

“Thank you.” Veronica replied, then said her goodbyes.

 

 

****

 

 

The afternoon had been spent in general repetition of her meeting with Mr. Breckinridge. The words and amount differed slightly between shops but the scene in total as well as its conclusion changed little. More and more it seemed that that the efforts put forth in this inquiry were quickly surpassing its merit; that the cost might quickly be exceeding worth of its conclusion either to herself or Miss Seymour. But Veronica had always had a weakness for puzzles, one that grew as they alluded her and, as long as she did not have other, more pressing inquires, and as long as kept the cost for Miss Seymour to a reasonable rate she convinced herself there was no harm in indulging it.

 

 

Veronica did not finally return to her father’s house shortly before they usually dined. She found father not in the sitting room, but by the fire in the kitchen, but in conference with Mr. Randall, the land steward for the Logan-Leister-Echolls estates.

 

 

When Sir Aaron took possession of the Abbey after the twelfth Lord Logan’s death, he had replaced nearly all of the household with those he thought only loyal to him. After Sir Aaron’s own death, in turn, _her_ Logan had been understandably suspicious of the man his father had chosen as the Abbey’s land steward and had asked to look over the accounts for the estate. And upon seeing their extent, quickly asked Veronica (and by proxy her father) to assist in their examination.

 

 

That had led to the discovery Mr. Stone.

 

 

That had also, more circuitously, led to the dismal of Sir Aaron’s steward, and the hiring of Mr. Randall.

 

 

Veronica supposed she should wonder whether, if Logan had been of age at the time of this discover, if they had had a more amiable friendship when he had reached his majority, if Logan would have asked her father to take the position. But in truth, given the accumulated history of the families and the particular character of each man, Veronica believed all parties were happier, that such a situation had not occurred.

 

 

 “Will you be dining with us tonight Mr. Randall?” The question caused both men to pause. Mr. Randall seemed to send a slightly apprehensive glance towards her father, before turning to address Veronica.

 

 

“No. Not tonight, I’m afraid.” He replied, standing. “Mrs. Randall and what remains of our yesterday’s dinner is, I suspect, already waiting for me at home, in fact, so I should take my leave.” He glanced back toward Mr. Mars then, “We will speak tomorrow?” Mr. Mars gave a nod and Mr. Randall finished his goodbye. After his leaving, Veronica checked that what had been left of their own christmas dinner was, had been placed by the fire to warm again, before sitting across from her father at their small table, and looking expectantly towards him.

 

 

“What were you two discussing? Is something amiss at the Abbey?” Mr. Mars seemed to study his daughter a few moments before wisely coming the conclusion that he would not be able to avoid an answer.

 

 

“He simply wanted some advice.” Veronica gave her father a knowing look. Mr. Mars sighed. “Some sort of animals has pulled up the planting around Chapel ruins  at the Abbey. He hoped I would be able to determine how and where they had made their way in and give my opinion on how to stop it from doing so again.”

 

 

“Should I come with you.” As overwhelming as it seemed, someday she would be the mistress of the Abbey. Perhaps now would be the time to be begin to familiarise herself with its working. Mr. Mars however, gave simply her a dry smile.

 

 

“No. Unless, of course, you have a deep desire to listen to us speak on the differences between the sheep breeds and the relative merits of ha-has, gates and stiles.”

 

 

“I believe I will continue with my own inquiries, thank you.” Veronica answered quickly. She would be perfectly happy leaving ha-ha and sheep to Lord Logan and Mr. Randall’s management in the future, if required.

 

 

Veronica and Mr. Mars sat for a moment in comfortable silence, as they waited to dine, each lost in their own thoughts. These thoughts, however, were interrupted, , when a somewhat discordant sound, coming from a small basket resting by her father’s feet next to the fire.

 

 

“Is that chirping?” Veronica was finally felt compelled to ask. Mr. Mars let out a sigh, as he brought the basket on to his lap, and pulled back the blanket presently covering it. Inside, nestled in rags were three small ball of downy fluff.

 

 

“Mr. McCormack brought these by this afternoon.” Mr. Mars explained, “I do not think he had any notion of what to do with them.”

 

 

“Why on earth would Mr. McCormack have chicks? In December?” Mr. Mars let another sigh.

 

 

“Something, I believe, are best left unanswered.” Was his only reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has kudoed or commented! I really appreciate any comment or critics you might have on the chapter or the story in general, good or bad. I hope people continue to enjoy the story, but if there is something that you don't enjoy, and especially if you find something that is anachronistic or otherwise off, please let me know. Thank you again!


	4. December 27th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for still reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Chapter 3 was originally going to include both the 26th and the 27th of December but the chapter started to become too long, and for lack of a better word, unwieldy, so I decided to chop it up. I still structurally consider this chapter to be part of chapter 3. 
> 
> Some other things that might be good to know:
> 
> A ridicule (or reticule) is a small purse with a drawstring closure, that began to be used by ladies during the regency era because they could no longer hide pockets (a bag with slit in it that was placed underneath the skirt and petticoat) underneath the newer less voluminous skirts that had become popular. 
> 
> An adventuress was a woman trying to gain fortune and position through a marriage or other romantic connection. 
> 
> An Improver was essentially a landscape architect. Whether or not they actually improved something, was often a matter of taste. Humphry Repton was one of the more famous (and expensive) during the late georgian era. He (and his fee) is even mentioned in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park.

Norton was a town of tenants, from the fine town houses of Apple Crescent to the narrow, crowded streets on which lived those that served them. Almost the whole of the town of Norton rested on lands still owned by the Kanes or the Landros families and then let, either to developers or, less often, the residents directly. The Kane’s income had progressively come from these rents, rather than from farm tenants or from the production of their own home farm.

 

 

It was a process which had begun even before Mr. Mars had become the Kane’s stewards, but he had never been truly comfortable with it. He did not like the ousting of families from farms they had rented from and worked for the Kane’s for generations. He had argued to Lord Kane that it was not sound to rely so heavy on Norton’s continued popularity. He had drawn attention to the signs, which had begun even before Lady Lillias’ death but had since become even more evident, that resorts such as Bath, often found themselves undone by their own success; the growing numbers of visitors of the middling sort causing the truly fashionable and their followers to go elsewhere for their holidays, creating new fashionable resort and then beginning the process anew. His successor had not such qualms and the farms Mr. Mars had spent years overseeing and collecting rents from had progressively been swallowed up by development since his dismissal.

 

 

But while the residences and a much of the parks of Reed Hall and Oakhollow Abbey were more or less in line with one another, the Kane’s land stretched towards the sea, and Norton while those owned by Lord Logan reached back inland, and as such had not yet been placed in the path of Norton’s expansion.

 

 

That is not to say that Oakhollow Abbey and its lands had remained unchanged over the last 20 years. Sir Aaron had put in motion a set of improvements almost as soon as he had taken possession of the Abbey. There had been ample use of the inclosure acts, a new modern wing of his own taste added to the residence, and the hiring of an improver to set a more fashionable plans for the grounds that was said charge even more than Repton’s five guineas a day.

 

 

This fashion, in general, included not only meticulously planned and maintained artificial wildness but a variety of structure of indeterminate utility: summer houses and hermitages, follies and ruins. So popular, in fact was the last of these that some gentleman built structures especially to the purpose which resembled those of the ancient or gothic style, but without the troublesome necessity of waiting for several centuries of neglect and decay to render them unfit for use in an aesthetically pleasing way.

 

 

No such measure had been required for the Abbey grounds, however.  For, while some of the former buildings had been incorporated into the main residence following the Abbey’s dissolution and subsequent purchase there were still many others that had been left to the vagaries of weather, time and house improving later generations, hoping for cheap stone.

 

 

The structure to whose remains Mr. Randalls had brought Mr. Mars, though, was one which the early Leisters would not have wanted or expected to suffer such a fate. Situated on the far side of the park, and singular for being one of the few of the Abbey’s structures closer to the Landros lands than those of the Kanes, it was a building whose original purpose Mr. Mars could not guess at, but which had been used by the first of the future Logan-Leister line to form a private chapel and family tombs.

 

 

Both uses had long since been abandoned. A fire or some such catastrophe had caused the roof to the chapel to collapse, and the subsequent neglect had done much of the rest; for generations the Leisters, and later Logan-Leisters had patronized and been buried within the grounds of St. Cyprian. Sir Aaron’s improvements finished what this had started: pulling up the remainder of the stone of the floor and pulling down one of the walls to turn the chapel into a garden. The early burials, however, had never been moved, and with these improvements their weathered epitaphs and effigies had become no more than points of discussion for Sir Aaron’s picnics and hunting parties.

 

 

It was around the base of one of the oldest of these likenesses that the plainest damage had been done.  While there was not the colourful blooms or greenery found the rest of the year present in the garden in winter, that did not mean it is empty. Bushes and bulbs remained waiting among the stones of the former chapel for warmer weather to bloom again. Or rather they had been. The ground around the tomb of what must have been a very early Leister ancestress, had been disturbed, and the spare rose bushes and bulbs once planted within it removed.  More telling, however, was the fact that the earth seemed to have been replaced with equal haste, bulbs mixed in with earth and roses placed on top, their roots now naked and expose.  Mr. Mars could only suppose the second action had been done in an attempt to hide the first, but if so, the culprit would have had more success had they made no such effort.

 

 

“This was not done by animals.” Mr. Mars stated. Beside him Mr. Randall grimaced. Mr. Mars found his countenance, however, did not so much suggested that he had purposely deceived Mr. Mars in his description the previous day, but that he had hoped his statements to be truth.

 

 

It would be so much easier if it was done by animals. Animals have simpler motives and far fewer points of ingress.

 

 

As it was, Mr. Mars was at a loss as to what the motives could be. Had it been another time of year or had the bulbs been taken he might have guessed the that the object had been to remove the undoubtedly expensive plants for sale. Had there been damage done to the graves themselves or to another part of the property he might have suspected a message of some sort. As it was however, there seemed no purpose to the thing. It only become harder to comprehend when considering the injury, no doubt done to the doers’ hands and arms by the bushes; thorns.

 

 

“Could they have been looking for valuables?” Mr. Mars then asked. Mr. Randall shrugged.

 

 

“If they are, they were misled. These tombs are so old I doubt there is anything more than a few bones within them, and the gardeners refresh the annuals by the tombs each season. Nothing could be hidden long there.” Mr. Mars nodded absently, and turned to look around the semi-enclosed space attempted to find some indication of the either the motive, or the path taken by the digger.

 

 

Unfortunately, the elements seemed to have been the villain’s favour. While the weather had been unusually mild the week previously, it had turned more seasonably cold of late and a fine layer of undisturbed snow now lay over the ground. Mr. Mars supposed this at least gave them a fair idea of the time the when the deed was done; the warmer weather would have been needed for the removal of the plants and earth in such a fashion.

 

 

“What about the rest?” He asked. Mr. Randall somehow seemed to grimace even more, then let out a sigh and then led Mr. Mars back to his cart.

 

 

The Baroness Logan had been declared dead inordinately quickly after her disappearance, especially as that her body still remained undiscovered. Mr. Mars suspected, had it been a Lord Logan’s death, and thus a seat in the House of Lords in question, both the declaration and the succession would still be considered uncertain. But it had not, and it was not, and however fair or unfair that was, Mr. Mars suspected that the absence of a body was, in some small sense, a blessing.

 

 

All indications suggested that the Baroness had taken her own life and should the coroner have ruled it as such, the punishment for a suicide by law included not only the confiscation of all personal property by the crown but also burial at a cross-roads with a stake through their heart. Without a body to judge, and, sympathy or bribery had allowed the Baroness’ death to be instead deemed a misadventure.

 

 

Whatever the cause of her death, however disingenuous his feelings, Sir Aaron, had desired to affect and appearance of deep mourning for his wife following her death. And, there is nothing so much which an insincere widower needs to complete his act as something to mourn over. So it was, that Sir Aaron took his wife’s death as an excuse to do further improvements to her former family home.

 

 

Thankfully for the estate's residents and visitors, the scheme was barely started at the time of Sir Aaron’s own death in a hunting accident only a few months after his wife’s and the current Lord Logan had stopped further construction.

 

 

In its stead, Lord Logan had taken a portion of the funds allotted for these improvements and used then to build a small structure to act as a memorial for his mother. With an its classical style, the carvings of mythical sea-creatures around its exterior in addition to the poetic dedicated to the late Baroness, this building had come to be known locally both as the garden new chapel or, more often, temple. Mr. Randall, informed to Mr. Mars that the current Lord had also included in each lease of the property since this structures’ completion, the requirement by his tenants for the maintenance of this memorial, and for that of a flower garden surrounding it which might include the flowers and plants of the tenants choosing, but must include both tulips and lilies.

 

 

The building had remained uninjured. The flowers, however, which now included rose bushes, as well as bulbs of the required plants, had endured the same treatment of those surrounding the other, older tomb.

 

 

“How did you discover the damage?” Mr. Mars asked, after taking his first survey of the garden.

 

 

“I generally make a circuit of the property once a week or so. But as the Kings’ lease ended on Christmas, I had thought it best to do a survey that morning.”

 

 

Christmas, like all the quarter days marked the beginning and end of the terms for both leases and employment. Mr. Mars always found this slightly grim given the spirit of the holiday, and the requirements it placed on those who were, due to it not given the opportunity for its observance.

 

 

“I assume they would need to pay for the damage, if we were to find it had occurred before the end of the lease.” Mr. Mars asked. Mr. Randall nodded.

 

 

“That is part of the reason I thought to bring you in to investigate.” Mr. Mars couldn’t help but smile.

 

 

“I don’t know if I can truly be called disinterested.” He pointed out. After a moment Mr. Randall, gave a slightly abashed smile back.

 

 

“I admit I had not thought of it in that fashion.” Mr. Randall related. The two stood for a moment, studying the scene in silence before Mr. Randall ventured to speak.

 

 

“Are you sure it could not have been done by deer?” He asked, with a sort of desperate hope Mr. Mars gave him a disbelieving look. “Very hungry deer?”.

 

 

Mr. Mars’ look continued.

 

****

 

 

Fussy. That was, to Veronica’s estimation, the singular word which could best describe her current dress.

 

 

During her time working with her father Veronica had, on many occasions, use schemes that required her to play a part, take on a persona, act as someone she was not --- and to wear clothing fitting for the part. Over the months since she had returned to Norton, She and Miss Mackenzie had, when opportunity presented itself, collected items which could be used in such ruses.

 

 

Veronica had also learned that at such times, the best lies were based in truth, or at least a version of the truth.

 

 

She knew all too well that there were many, many different versions of herself found, within the mind, imagination, and gossip of the residents of Norton. There were those who thought of her as a failed governess, or a clever investigator, or an attorney’s daughter playing at thief-taking. There were also those for whom she would forever be a steward’s daughter, raised to have expectations above her stations, and those who viewed her as vulgar adventuress, taking advantage of Lord Logan’s grief and friendship to gain an advantageous new position. Today, she planned to use the last of these assumptions to her own advantage.  She had therefore dressed accordingly.

 

 

Her bonnet, originally plain, had had ribbons, feathers and other frippery gathered and added to it to such a degree since its purchase that its originally shape and colour were entirely obscured. Her shoes were of the impractically delicate sort whose continual popularity had once forced the King to grant his many daughters an allowance for a new pair each week.

 

 

Her dress and pelisse had been purchased second hand during the time following the usual sea-side season when Norton’s dealers in such things were crowded with the clothing disposed of by the fashionable (or in this case, simply rich) visitors to town. Both were covered with the sort of extravagance of detail and decoration that had no doubt made their creation dear but also made their appeal --- and therefore price--- to a second owner low.

 

 

It was, however, the fabric rather than any sudden discovery of taste which Veronica suspected had led to their disposal by their first owner.  A pink so light and fragile it seemed both impossible to keep clean and impossible to clean once soiled. The sort of fabric only one who had never done laundry --- or who could afford to dispose of a dress after little use, would consider purchasing. There had, indeed, been a small stain on skirt at the time they had purchased the pair. There was still a stain, in fact, through it had lightened considerably after Miss Mackenzie had applied every removal agent she had learned, as either a farmer’s daughter or a lady’s maid, but it had been easily covered with a ruffle added for the purpose. 

 

 

At the last moment, Veronica had conceived of adding the ring itself. She could think of nothing better to gained the attention of a shopkeeper than a gold ring with diamonds and a large precious stone, except perhaps an even larger, dearer ring of the same.

 

 

The dress had been conceived of as to wear to while visiting the confectioners of Norton the great body of which would know of her only through rumour and reputation, with the hope that they would be far more easily persuaded to part with information if they believed her to simply be a flighty, future costumer.

 

 

But while Veronica and Miss Mackenzie had been making the last adjustments and preparations the previous night, she had recalled that there was another shop where it might be made even more useful.

 

 

Oakshott’s was not a pawnbroker’s shop. Those who bought and sold items there were of the sort which would never allow themselves to be associated with _pawnbroker’s_ shop. It did, however, served a similar function among the members of the better circles of society when they visited Norton.  It was not the sort of place one went to, to buy or sell stolen goods. If the proprietrix’s reputation was to be believed, it was not the sort of place one _could_ go to buy or sell stolen good. And it certainly was not the sort of place that the sort thieves dealt with by Veronica or her father did so; and so, she had not had never had the occasion to visit the shop during her inquiries previously.

 

 

But simply because something may have been stolen, that did not dictate it had not been bought or sold lawfully at some point ---- and given how little Veronica presently knew, even knowing the particulars of such a transaction might give her some point from which to proceed.

 

 

After some discussion, both Veronica and Miss Mackenzie had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Oakshott might be more likely to loosen her tongue if there were not a witness, even a servant, and so Veronica had made her way to the shop alone.

 

 

Standing in front, Veronica took a moment to don the ebullient, affected, conceited deportment she had perfected during the inquiries of her youth.

 

 

Weaving through the store, she deliberately pausing to look at some of the more expensive, or ostentatious pieces of merchandise as she made her way to the back of the store, where she had already noted a woman who could only be the proprietrix. On seeing Veronica, the presumed Mrs. Oakshott gave shallow smile. Veronica deliberately and with a theatricality she suspects would rival Lord Logan at his most dramatic, removed her glove and placed her beringed hand on the counter’s surface directly within the eyeline of the shopkeeper.

 

 

“Hello! I am Miss Mars.” She gestured towards herself, with another calculated movement, resting her hand on her breast so that the stones would catch the light, “Miss Veronica Mars? I have lately become engagement to Lord Logan…”

 

 

“I have heard of you Miss Mars.” Mrs. Oakshott smoothly cut in, “And I see that your intended has already begun to gift you with some of his mother’s pieces.” She said nodding towards Veronica’s hand.

 

 

Veronica could only hope her countenance did betrayed the surprise elicited both by this revelation and the ease with which Mrs. Oakshott had supplied it had. Or, perhaps more reasonably, that the shopkeeper’s gaze had been too fixed on her hand during the few moments it had taken Veronica to shake of the shock, to have taken note of it.

 

 

“Why yes!” Veronica exclaimed, broadened her smile, then cooed, “he is just all consideration. That is, in fact, why I have come today. You see, Lord Logan was not entirely sure of the provenance of this ring, other than it being his mother’s of course, and I was hoping to surprise him, by discovering it! I thought perhaps I might even be able to purchase some similar pieces. Did the Baroness purchase the ring from you? Or perhaps you might know where it was created --- I’ve been told you are so knowledgeable about such things--- I so wish I could find a way to purchase a like set!”

 

 

Mrs. Oakshott leaned back slightly, almost as if to distance herself from this burst of verbosity, and watched Veronica, studying her in a manner which suddenly made Veronica wish she was wearing her own, far more sensible hat.

 

 

Finally, Mrs. Oakshott seemed to reach some sort of conclusion and moved back towards the counter.

 

 

“Give me a moment.” She then turned around, and her eyes slowly tracing down the hundred or so near identical books resting on bookshelf behind her until she found her object and, heaving it up from a lower shelf, dropped it unto the counter. She quickly began shifting though its pages, at a pace quick enough that Veronica could not decipher what was written.

 

 

Finally, Mrs. Oakshott paused, then turned the selected book to face Veronica, pointing to a particular entry. It detailed the shops’ purchase more than ten years before, of several items from a Mrs. Morcar. Listed among the pieces was a “fancy ring, diamond and ruby,” along with a description like the ring presently on Veronica’s fingers, as well as both the value and the far smaller price paid out. It took Veronica a few moments of staring at the familiar name to recall that the Baroness Logan’s mother had been a Morcar.

 

 

“Oh! Did the Baroness Logan purchase the ring here then?” She finally said, feigning naivete. Mrs. Oakshott gave Veronica look of disappointment.

 

 

“Perhaps you are as clever as your hat suggests.”

 

 

Veronica only just stopped herself from self-consciously reaching up to touch the confection on top of her head.

 

 

Looking over at the expectant proprietrix, Veronica did a few calculations of her own. There is a point of a scheme when its utility began to outweighed by its incumbrances. Veronica suspected such a point had just been reached. Giving another, slightly rueful smile, she a deep breath and she allowed a portion of her persona to fall away.

 

 

“Perhaps we should speak a bit more plainly to one another?”

 

 

Mrs. Oakshott responded with a nod.

 

 

“I assume from your tone Mrs. Morcar was in truth the Baroness Logan herself, not one of her cousins.”

 

 

Another nod.

 

 

 “If that was the case, however, if the ring was sold by the Baroness, and if you believed it was no longer part of the family’s jewels, then why did you assume Lord Logan had given the ring to me?”

 

 

“Why were you so astonished at the assumption?” Mrs. Oakshott countered. Again, Veronica attempted weighed the woman in front of her, and again she reluctantly concluded she would need to show more of her own hand if she hoped to gain what she now needed.

 

 

“This ring was, recently, recovered.” She said, careful, she hoped not to reveal, her previous ignorance of it ever being among the Baroness’ jewels.  

 

 

“I am attempting to discovered how it came to be where is it was found, and whether other pieces may have had a similar fate.” Mrs. Oakshott gave her an approving smile. It was slightly distressing. She then flipped a few more pages in her book and pointed to another entry.

 

 

“She purchased them back,” Mrs. Oakshott stated, “She claimed it was all just a small misunderstanding. But that was not her first such misunderstanding, or the last. That ring, however, I never saw again.”

 

 

“That seems a long time to remember so small a thing.” Veronica pointed out. Mrs. Oakshott shrugged.

 

 

“I had another customer who wished to purchase it. She asked me to inform her if it were for sale again.”

 

 

“Would you be able to tell me their name? It’s possible she might have arranged a private sale.”  Mrs. Oakshott gave her a doubtful look. Veronica attempted a slightly different approach. “You would have lost a commission, if such a sale had taken place.” Veronica offered. Mrs. Oakshott gave what would have been, in a less elegant establishment, a snort.

 

 

“Miss Mars, you have no doubt wondered why I have been so frank with you?”

 

 

“You do not seem so frank at the moment.” Veronica re-joined. Mrs. Oakshott smirked.

 

 

“I have heard of you Miss Mars. Not simply as Lord Logan’s intended, but as a woman who it good to have on your side, and even better to have in your debt. And so, I have been generous. But if you wish for me to give you information about my customers, my current customers, I will need something more substantial than the possibility you will feel indebted to me.”

 

 

Veronica sighed internally and reached for the ridiculous ridicule Miss Mackenzie had been oddly gleeful to create to match her current dress. Mrs. Oakshott, however, put up a hand to stop her.

 

 

“I don’t want a bribe, Miss Mars. I want a promise.”

 

 

“A promise?” Veronica asked, doubtfully.

 

 

“That I can seek repayment for the information through a favour at a later time.”

 

 

In theory, Veronica had little issue with such an arrangement; she and in fact had often made similar agreements before.

 

 

“An equitable favour.” Veronica countered. Mrs. Oakshott gave an exceedingly sweet smile.

 

 

“An equitable favour.” In spite of this consolation, Veronica felt suddenly wary. But now, it was not simply a lost ring. It was Logan’s mother’s ring. She needed to know if it had been sold or if it was in fact stolen. And not simply for Miss Seymour.

 

 

“Very well. I promise.” Mrs. Oakshott shook her head.

 

 

“That is not quite enough Miss Mars.” Mrs. Oakshott told her, “I will write it out. You will read it. If it is acceptable, you will sign it.” Veronica scruples increased, but she still nodded.

 

 

Mrs. Oakshott moved down the counter slightly, to an area prepared, for the writing of receipts and duplicates. After a few moments of scratching out the singular promissory note she returned, and one of which was placed one of the two sheets she held on the counter in front of Veronica. On it was outlined what they had discussed, although, much to Veronica’s displeasure, it did not set either the amount of information given to her by Mrs. Oakshott or what sort of favour would be required in return.

 

 

Veronica wondered at Mrs. Oakshott purpose in all this. Veronica had every intention of honouring the favour to Mrs. Oakshott (within reason of course); far too much of her own actions rested on the exchange of favours. But if Mrs. Oakshott doubted her in this, a written promise should be of no more use than an oral one. Without a witness or a stamp such a note would not be to be treated as a legal debt, even if one could find a way to value it.

 

 

So, Veronica signed.

 

 

But as Mrs. Oakshott reached for the paper, Veronica pulled it back, slightly out of her reach.

 

 

“Since it seems that I am to be in your debt --- perhaps you might add some additional information to my line of credit.”

 

 

“What is it you wish to know.” There was a great deal she wished to know but she settled for this:

 

 

“Has Sir Aaron’s ward bought or sold items here? Either her own or the Baroness’.”

 

 

A ring that once belonged to Logan’s mother being delivered to a girl only a short distance away from her father’s house the same week as the return of Ser Arron’s ward --- It all seemed too much a coincidence. Mrs. Oakshott, however, answered with a dismissive huff.

 

 

“She tried, not long after the Baroness’ death. I sent her home. And, as I stated before, I never saw that ring again until today.”

 

 

While not truly satisfied, Veronica again weighed the woman in front of her, and now decided that, however curious she may be, further answer would not be worth incurring more debt to Mrs. Oakshott.  

 

 

She handed her the note.  

 

 

Mrs. Oakshott, in turn gave to the second slip of paper to Veronica. On it was written a name, along with that of a country house and the address for both a house in Town and in Norton. After the necessary courtesies, Veronica left with both her prize and a slight foreboding at how happy Mrs. Oakshott had seemed with hers

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented or kudoed. I'm sorry this story is taking so long to get out.I would love to hear any comment or critiques. If there was something you thought was unclear, anachronistic or just wrong in any way please please please let me know. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you!


	5. December 27th (Evening)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read this increasingly unseasonable story! This is the last of what was originally planned to be chapter 3 (yes, you read that right, chapter 3). I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I also have to confess that I realized in writing this chapter I had forgotten to add brandy to the list of ingredients in the twelfth cake and I have shamelessly passed the buck for this mistake onto Veronica in this chapter.

It is a universal truth that when a woman, whether due to necessity or choice, wears shoes created for fashion rather than comfort, she inevitable finds the weather wetter and the walk longer than was anticipated or desirable.

 

 

Veronica would allow, however, that this might not be as vexing a truth had her discomfort been alloyed with more success in the quest which had caused it.

 

 

There were perhaps half a dozen  confectioners and other shops in Norton that might supply a cake similar to that which Miss Seymour had received, all spread across the various shopping areas of the town, each serving  a different set: the nobility, the gentry, the middling sort and of course those who had a made great deal of money but had gained it such a way it would take one or two more generation of idleness before they could be accepted among the fashionable.

 

 

None would claim credit for Miss Seymour’s cake.

 

 

While various reasons were presented there were two counts on which all would agree: the cake, as she described it, was smaller than they would sell (absent a special commission, of course) and the decorations were simple, old fashioned, clumsy.

 

 

Although, Veronica would admit the last of these might be more due to her own artistic ability than the baker.

 

 

She had considered the possibility, of course, that these criticisms were due to either rivalry between shops or an attempt to distance themselves from whatever had led the ring to be placed within it. But as one confectioner after another repeated such similar sentiments, she began to believe that the cake must have come, not from such a shop but from the kitchen of a private house or, perhaps that of an Inn or public house.

 

 

The final determination could not be mad, until that evening.  

 

 

Veronica would have preferred to have Mr. Fennel join her and Miss Mackenzie during their expedition, but she knew and understood that her inquiries were not his livelihood. There was now a lull in visitors to Norton, between the fashionable sea-side season in the late summer and early fall and the slightly less fashionable but progressively more popular (and economical) season following the current holidays. This freed Mr. Fennel, from his obligations to his sporting clients, but in doing so, it had become the time he relied on to make progress on his other commissions. What little daylight could be found on these short days, he needed to spend in his shop.

 

 

He dutifully arrived, however, at the Mars home, as soon as dusk had made it impossible to continue his work, and slightly before Veronica, Miss Mackenzie and her father generally dined.

 

 

While it had taken some finessing, Veronica had secured a small sample of cake from several of the shops which, their assurances aside, seemed most likely to have baked Miss Seymour’s cake. She presented them to Mr. Fennel each wrapped in a labelled piece of paper. He made quick work unfolding these packets and proceeded to do his duty in tasting each.

 

 

On taking a bite of the first, he took a moment to consider the flavours before declaring:

 

 

“Not enough brandy.” Veronica looked through her notes and realized with some embarrassment, she had not even included brandy as an ingredient which could help to identify the cake.

 

 

“I suppose I thought it was like eggs and flour --- something so necessary to a twelfth cake, it did not need to be written.”

 

 

“It may be in all twelfth cake, or great cake,” Mr. Fennel replied, still considering the last of the small slice, “but this one has far less than Miss Seymour’s.”

 

 

Another piece, by contrast:

 

 

“Too much brandy.” Mr. Fennel grimaced.

 

 

“That,” Veronica told him looking at paper from which it came, “was from a confectioner who swore no true twelfth cake should be eaten or sold before it had been allowed to sit for at least a sennight.”

 

 

“That cake could sit for a year without spoiling.” Mr. Fennel stated. “Its pickled.” After tasting the third:

 

 

 “It tastes off. Not spoiled.” He clarified. “But off from what I remember of the cake on Christmas eve.” He paused a moment and took the last bite holding it in his mouth a moment. “A little like bread or like it has a bit of beer along with the brandy?”

 

 

“Yeast.” Miss Mackenzie supplied from where she sat by the fire. Then explained, “My mother would sometimes use barm, from the brewhouse in her cakes during the winter like you would bread, to make them rise.”

 

 

“Perhaps Miss Mackenzie should taste as well.” Veronica offered, with a knowing smile. Mr. Fennel affected indignation, wrapping his arm as if to protect hat box containing the remaining pieces.

 

 

The rest of the cakes were similarly excluded. Due to a different balance of spices, or almonds or sherry instead of brandy.  None included the exact mixture of sweetmeats.

 

 

It seemed as through Veronica’s early supposition was correct: the cake had come from a different source.

 

 

“No piece from Amelia’s?” Mr. Fennel asked, leafing through the papers remains in the box.

 

 

”Amelia’s only bakes Twelfth Cakes when ordered fresh.” Miss Mackenzie supplied.

 

 

Mr. Fennel’s eyes narrowed slightly and he studied Veronica a moment.

 

 

“You were embarrassed to visit the shop wearing that.” He gestured towards the hat and pelisse, now hanging by the fire, waiting until they had dried, and Veronica’s feet were less pained before being returned to the attic.

 

 

“I had other business to attend to this morning, as part of the inquiry.” Veronica argued. He gave her a knowing look. She added, “Amelia’s is Lord Logan’s favourite confectionery. And,” she continued, “Lady Lillias and I frequented it. They would not need or believe the ruse.” Mr. Fennel raised his brow.

 

 

“It was the hat.” Miss Mackenzie supplied. Veronica glared at her Abigail, but resigned herself.

 

 

“Very well.” She sighed. “Yes. I hope to be able to order from Amelia’s in the future without embarrassment. But if you had tasted their coffee ices you would agree.” She then turned toward Miss Mackenzie with her own look of in affected indignation. “I thought _a lady’s maid_ was prided on her discretion.” Miss Mackenzie smiled.

 

 

“Then it I suppose I am fortunate to have a Mistress who prefers to think of herself as having an assistant.”

 

 

Perhaps it was a lingering effect of her costume, but Veronica stopped herself from sticking out her tongue by only the narrowest of margins.

 

 

Deciding a change in subject might be apt, Veronica turned herself and the conversation toward Mr. Fennel and his day’s activities.

 

 

“How goes your work on the Chance?”

 

 

At the opening, Mr. Fennel proceeded to explain what had been done, what needed to be done and what he hoped to do. In truth, Veronica did not understand the greater portion of what her friends was describing, but she was enormously pleased to see him so animated about his work.

 

 

When Caroline Bishop married her Comte, her father had given his yacht to the couple, as what, on reflection, seems a rather morbid wedding gift. Veronica could not say if the Comte made any use of it, she highly doubts the Comtesse did, but at his death, it was amongst the part of his estate left to his widow. She had left it more or less to rot.

 

 

A widow, unlike a wife can legally own property as well as make a will disposing of it. The late Comtesse de Ville had left almost the whole of her estate to her goddaughter and name sake, the little daughter of her late particular friend, Miss Knight, and named Logan and the girls’ current guardians as the trustees.

 

 

It had been decided that Mr. Fennel would be commissioned to restore the yacht, in the hopes that doing so would increase the amount it could fetch when sold.

 

 

The Comte may have had a title but as an émigré he had not had land or property from which to gain an income. Even with Caroline’s wedding portion, it seemed that, like much of their set, the couple had lived far too much on credit and lost far too much at gaming, leaving not nearly as much as Veronica was sure the Comtesse would have wished for little Caro.

 

 

It has been said that gambling is to the ton, what gin is the masses. Veronica had seen far too much alcohol and laudanum consumed by the upper classes, and far too many ruined by gaming among the working ones to think this accurate but there was no denying that gaming was a common and destructive vice amongst fashionable society.

 

 

This was why, Veronica had not truly been surprised to discover that the Baroness Logan had had need of additional funds at times. The Baroness had been deeply unhappy, both in her life and her marriage, and even Logan, much as he adored her, would not deny she had availed herself of several of the other vices of her class to blunt her pain.

 

 

If Veronica was surprised at all, it was at the amount the Baroness had sought. While the ring and other items the Baroness had sold to Mrs. Oakshott would seem a fortune to most, their value, much less the amount she would have received for them in such sale, would not seem to cover the high play Veronica knew was common among the circles she would have frequented.

 

 

It was possible that she had sold the ring and other items privately. She might have gained more in such a sale. Less likely, it seemed at least to Veronica, she might have gone to another, less reputable shop in Norton or London. But, given that she had continued to sell items to Oakshotts’ throughout her life, Veronica could not imagine why the Baroness would go through the additional inconvenience and effort to sell this particular ring elsewhere.

 

 

Someone else, could, of course, have sold the ring. A wife’s property was her husband’s. Sir Aaron had every right to sell it or give it away. And yet, for all the many, many evils Veronica would readily credit to Sir Aaron, she did not believe he would have done this.

 

 

This was not due to any great affection he may have had for his wife, or any semblance of morality. He had none. But Sir Aaron had, for his own reasons, had taken great pains to affection the appearance of a grieving widower after the Baroness Logan’s death and selling her jewellery so soon would have belayed this. More than this, though, Veronica believed that Sir Aaron had viewed the history, title and estates that his wife had brought into their union as a trophy of sorts. A symbol of his victory within and over the ton, and she suspected he viewed her jewellery, collected over generations by her family, as much the same. She would believe he might give them to a mistress, or parade them around the neck of third wife, but not sell them in secret.

 

 

Although perhaps, she was simply trying to find reason why the ring could not have been sold. If the ring was stolen, she would be able to return another small piece of his mother --- of his family history to Logan. If it was sold, she would simply have proof of another moment of weaken from the Baroness, or another moment of cruelty from Sir Aaron.

 

 

Or another moment of careless selfishness from the woman Logan, had been raised to think of as a sister.

 

 

Mr. Fennel was attempting to explain to her the benefits the technique he was using to repair and replace areas of the yacht’s structures, while Veronica was diligently attempting to nod at the appropriate times when Mr. Mars returned, carrying a basket full of mince pies gifted by Mrs. Randall.

 

 

After the usual greetings, the small party moved into the kitchen and began to unpack Mrs. Randall’s basket as well as set out what other dishes were left for dinner.

 

 

“How did Madame Poulin, Mrs. Gallienne and the Comtesse de Gallus settle in?”

 

 

Her father gave Veronica a questioning look. Miss Mackenzie, who had been present when she had named the animals, then gave Mr. Mars a questioning look, which in turn gained her one from Mr. Fennel.

 

 

“The chicks.” Veronica clarified. Mr. Mars shook his head.

 

 

“Safely nestled under two of the broodier hens at the Abbey’s home farm when last I saw them.” 

 

 

“And the rest?” He seemed to consider the question a moment before answering.

 

 

“It seems likely to take longer than I had originally thought.”

 

 

“Clever sheep?” She joked. Her father only answered with a shrug.

 

 

“Then you will be seeing Mr. Randall again tomorrow?” Again, there was a slight pause.

 

 

“Most likely. Why?”

 

 

“I had some questions, related to my current inquiry I thought he may be able to answer.” Her father considered her a moment.

 

 

“He will be calling tomorrow in the morning. I suppose you might speak to him then. Or I could send along a letter, if you prefer.”

 

 

“Tomorrow morning will do well enough.” She said. He nodded, then, looking back up gestured towards the now laid table.

 

 

“Now,” He said, with a slight flourish, “We dine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos or comments. I really, really appreciate an comments (good or bad) you have. 
> 
> The word serendipity, while coined in 1754 does not seem to have entered common usage until the 20th century, so I decided to change the name of Mr. Bishop's yacht to reflect this. 
> 
> A sennight, for those who are interested, means a week.
> 
> Sweetmeats are confectionery or sweet foods (not to be confused with sweatbreads which are offal) in the case of a great cake or twelfth cake this would usually mean a collection of dried fruit.
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy the story! Thank you!


	6. December 28th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading! I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Veronica came downstairs following toilette the next morning to find her father had kept Mr. Randall in the sitting room, waiting so she might have a chance to speak with him.

 

 

In asking where the late Baroness Logan’s jewels are now kept, she received a somewhat less agreeable answer than she would have hoped.  

 

 

“I…Miss Mars…”

 

 

Examining at his countenance, Veronica considered her question and understood her error.  Mr. Randall was to act as Logan’s agent while he was away. He was expected to honour Logan’s wishes, yes, but more so to look out for his employer’s interests. And while Veronica was _going_ to be his employer’s wife., she wasn’t yet.

 

 

“A friend received a ring.” She explained. “Which I know to have belonged to the Baroness Logan’s. I have been attempting to determine how it came to leave the family’s possession.” Mr. Randall relaxed. A touch. “I fear it may have been stolen.” She added. her promptly tensed again.

 

 

“I am afraid I cannot vouchsafe for each piece. It is my understanding that that once Lord Logan decided to let the Abbey, he removed the items he viewed to be of value, the Baroness’ jewels, the plate and several of his mother’s favourite paintings, to Logan House in London.”

 

 

This was rather disappointing.

 

 

Veronica was not one to believe that a few locks would stop a thief, especially at a residence Far too many people moved within such a household. Far too many handled keys and it was locks could be picked far too easily. London, however, had a great many places to sell stolen property.

 

 

 “The smaller pieces are placed in a safe as well. I can write to housekeeper, if you wish. But if you truly think there may have been a robbery, perhaps I should travel to London myself.”

 

 

“I don’t believe such a journey that will be necessarily.” Veronica assured him. “A letter perhaps should be sent, but I doubt a thief of even the meanest understanding would remove a ring from London only to sell it in the place it was most likely to be known.”

 

 

Mr. Randall reluctantly agreed, although, Veronica suspected, more due to a desire to avoid traveling to London than out of any certainty of the sentiment.

 

 

“I, of course, was not the land steward at the time of the Baroness Logan, or Sir Aaron’s deaths, but I do have predecessor’s record. Or, at least those that survived his dismissal.” He gave her a wry smile. “I might be able to determine if the ring was still among Sir Aaron’s estate at the time of his death.”

 

 

No record, of course would exist as to if it was among Baroness Logan’s things at her death for legally, she was not viewed as _having_ things.

 

 

 “There was also some suggestion that the Baroness might have sold some items.” She confessed.  “Possibly to settle a debt.”

 

 

“I doubt such a transaction would be in the record.” Mr. Randall told her, shaking his head.

 

 

Veronica suspected so as well. If the Baroness Logan had sold her jewels, it would be due to an expense she would no wish Sir Aaron to know of.

 

 

“But, if I do discover such a sale while am examining the records, I will be sure to note it.”

 

 

****

 

 

There were days when Veronica’s routine could appear remarkably similar to be that of any gentlewoman, or lady. Provided, one was to disregarded the fact that the object of the greater part of her actions was to achieve a piece of information or make progress on an inquiry.

 

Following her discussion with Mr. Randall, and his subsequent departure with her father, Veronica and Miss Mackenzie spent the first part of the morning writing letters.

 

 

Ordinarily the one who received a letter paid its postage. This, along with the high price of paper meant it was both common sense and common courtesy to fill each sheet as much as legibility allowed. Peers, however, could frank letters. Logan had left her a packet of already franked sheets for her use.

 

 

These were not intended for her letters to him ---he was, he insisted, perfectly willing to pay for any letter or package she could manage to get across the channel--- but for her inquiries.

 

 

People, on balance, are more likely to receive and answer a letter if they did not have to pay for the privilege. And tended to be even more inclined if someone of some import appeared to be associated with it.

 

 

Veronica used one such sheet to write to the woman Mrs. Oakshott had stated to have exhibited an interest in the ring. She had been tempted to write three letters, one to each of address given, but she had restrained herself.

 

 

 

 As much as she might wish it otherwise, it might be months yet before Logan would be home.  And, aside from making her feel as if a blow had been planted in her stomach, this also meant that it would some time before her supply of franked pages would be renewed. It would simply be too wasteful to use _three_ sheets simply to increase chance she would receive an answer quickly. Far better to send only one letter to the address at which her intended reader was more likely to presently reside, and hope, if she guessed wrongly, it would be forwarded on.

 

 

Following her letters of business, she completed a letter to her former pupils the Misses King. Mr. Randall had related to Veronica that the Kings had not renewed their lease on the Abbey. Veronica was not in truth, surprised.

 

 

After Logan had become suspected of the Comtesse’s murder, the Kings had quickly removed back to London, hoping to avoid being associated with the scandal of their landlord.

 

 

Veronica had been expected to leave with them. But when faced with returning to the calm, respectable life she had led with them, or staying in Norton to help Logan, she had chosen Logan.

 

 

The Kings, or at the very least their daughters, understood. She continued to correspond with them. She had called on them when they had briefly returned to the Abbey during the seaside season last fall. She also knew that this visit had become slightly awkward for the Kings. How does one treat a woman who was at once one’s former governess and the future wife of one’s landlord? How does one mix within the society of a town when one has fled from its society? It would be far easier to let a house elsewhere.

 

 

The last of her letters was to Logan. It was left unfinished.

 

 

Each of Logan’s letters were comprised of a week or more’s sentiments. He may not find the price of paper or postage of great consequence, but he was at war. Supplies were not always easily found. Each sheet, dutiful filled, included portions covering a day, a few days or a few hours. Some entries were short and witty. Some long and serious.

 

 

 Veronica, however, had never been one to share her feelings easily, therefore she had instead taken to filling her letters with her actions, rather than her emotions. She wrote stories from the time they had been apart, news of their acquaintances, and, more and more, her current inquiries. But she could not share this inquiry with him. Not yet. She could not worry him with this before she knew for certain what occurred.

 

 

After staring at half filled sheet for some time, she placed it back inside her writing desk and walked out with Miss Mackenzie towards Norton’s shops.

 

 

Her first stop was at the confectionary whose cake Mr. Fennel had most enjoyed.

 

 

If her advertisement did bring Miss Seymour’s admirer to her, she would need a second cake to complete her scheme.

 

 

If her advertisement did not bring Miss Seymour’s admirer to her, she would have a cake in need of someone willing to eat it.

 

 

Such a cake, however, would be dear. Too dear to ask the Seymours to supply it. In truth, it would be too dear to comfortably fit within her own expenses either. She had needed to open a line a credit with the confectioner.  Which caused her more than a small measure of apprehension and guilt especially as, in order to settle it she may well have to rely upon pecuniary assistance Mr. Randall had offered once told of the new object of her inquiry.

 

 

The confectioner agreed to the commission of a cake although he did, once again, protest, that it was far too small for her needs.

 

 

Following the confectionary, Veronica and Miss Mackenzie proceeded the circulating library to which the Mars family subscribed.

 

 

The owner has grown to know her and her habits in the months since she had returned to Norton, and upon her entrance directly move to collect her usual compliment of papers.

 

 

Miss Mackenzie shifted through the selection of magazines, hoping for an article of interest and settling, Veronica suspected, for one detailing the latest fashion Veronica was soon to be subjected to.

 

 

Veronica herself began with a selection of the London daily papers.

 

 

As she had since Logan’s departure, she dismissed the first page of advertisements and turned first to the section relating the news from foreign papers and dispatches. She could never be entirely satisfied that Logan was safe.  War is a constantly changing circumstances, and even the most recent news was more than a week past.  But, once she was reasonably sure he had been neither counted among the casualties nor facing an imminent battle at _that_ time, she could turn to the rest of the paper.

 

 

She next read the lists of births, marriages, deaths and military commissions, making notes of those who were among either her or Logan’s acquaintance. Logan had once confided that, army communications being as they were, he had known several officers who had only known for certain of a promotion once an English paper or a letter from home had arrived telling of it.

 

 

She then glanced through the section on fashion and the fashionable, again picking through the gossip for the names of those of known to either her or Logan before spending several minutes on the reports on crime and the courts if there be any.

 

 

After properly familiarized herself with the news of nation, she began on that of Neptune. Or more particularly, that which warranted a place in the Neptune Spectator, which were very much not the same. _There_ her first object was the advertisements. Once she confirmed that her own had indeed been placed correctly, she then moved to read those requesting the return of lost or stolen goods. Such advertisements and the rewards they offered formed a large portion of her and her father’s income.

 

 

Today she looked not only for new clients but also for those advertisement whose items might include the ring. She made note of two of the former but, for good or ill, none of that later before turning the page to Neptune’s own notices, gossip and list of arrivals.

 

 

To most country villages this season would mark the time when the local gentry and noble families would be in residence and the society would be at its peak. However, so much of Norton’s society was formed by its visitors, it seemed almost empty by comparison.  In the Spectator the portion usually filled with the movements the great and good of the nation, now was far less discriminating, both in geography and importance. There were included visitors not only to Norton, but villages as far away as Pancombe, almost fifteen miles inland. Those who were noted as arriving in Norton itself, were almost entirely members of the gentry who would not have been deemed worthy of mention in either the fall or spring.

 

 

The only visitor of note, in fact, was Sir Aaron’s former ward.

 

 

Once, finished with all her tasks, Veronica allowed herself to visit the to the post office to fetch what letters she and her father had received. She was rewarded with three letters. One from the Kings. Two from Logan.

 

 

_Two._

The post master angry, it seemed, on her own behalf, explained that he first of these missives had indeed arrived on English soil some time ago, but had wrongly been sent to another Sussex village of similar name. Norland’s residents, it seemed, had not felt the need to correct the mistake with what either Veronica, or Norton’s post-master felt to be the necessary promptness.

 

 

Veronica could not even truly blame the post for her vexation as a large blot of ink covered portions of the address such that it was easy to understand how a confusion could have occurred

 

 

Taking her prize, Veronica quickly thanked the post-master and hurried Miss Mackenzie home. Her intentions were simply. Return home. Eat a small nuncheon. Find a spot of relative privacy and read her letters.

 

 

It was a good plan. She liked it a great deal. It was spoiled almost immediately.

 

 

No sooner had she removed her bonnet, pelisse and gloves than she heard the sound of a carriage approaching her father’s door. Looking out the window, Veronica released a disappointed sigh upon seeing the livery on the coach’s side. And another at a knock on her door.

 

 

It seemed she was not so forgotten by the remainder of Logan’s family as she had hoped.

 

 

As Veronica moved as if to stand, Miss Mackenzie gave her a glare, warning Veronica to stay seated.

 

 

“I assume you are not at home?” Miss Mackenzie asked hopefully.

 

 

It was a tempting offer. There were known rules to morning calls. Being not at home might mean one had truly stepped out. Or That one did wish to see anyone. Or that one did wish to see to see one particular visitor. But if you were “not at home” and did not return a call, it would be taken as an end to the connection.

 

 

And, tempting or not, Veronica could not in good conscious do so. However, vexing her current visitor was, however vexing even Logan often found her, Logan still could not help but see her as a sister.

 

 

Saying she was not at home would only postpone the inevitable meeting for a short while and lead to added awkwardness when it did occur.

 

 

In truth, Veronica might still have done so, had it not been for her current. She had seen her soon to be guest wear not only several gowns, coats and hats taken from the Baroness Logan’s wardrobe after the Baroness’ death, but on when particularly peculiar day, one of her of the Baroness’ dressing gowns. Stealing a piece of jewellery would seem quite common place in comparison.

 

 

“I’m afraid that this may be the one occasion when I do wish to speak to her.” Miss Mackenzie was not pleased, but she still moved to answer the door.

 

 

In a household without a housekeeper a lady’s maid was expected to fulfil certain aspects of a housekeeper’s responsibilities. Once freed from introductions, Miss Mackenzie quickly took advantage of this. Having claimed the need to prepare the tea things, she dashed back towards the kitchen, abandoning Veronica to her guests.

 

 

Civilities and courtesies were paid. Her visitor’s paid companion, Mrs. Lamontagne, was introduced. The three were left star at one another across Veronica’s sitting room while Veronica considered how best to approach the subject of the ring and her guests appeared to be considering the room

 

 

“Mrs…”-Veronica began, but was quickly interrupted

 

 

“Katrina, please.”  Mrs- _Katrina_ said with a smile “We are soon to be almost family after all.” Veronica gave her a strained smile.

 

 

“Katrina,” She began again. The lady in question gave Veronica a pleased smile “How have you found Norton?” The smile faltered slightly.

 

 

“Much the same.” Katrina stated, “Not perhaps as lively as I remember, but then, that is always the way. The interesting is remembered easily while the dull, every day is easily forgotten.”

 

 

The room once again fell into an awkward silence.

 

 

Most calls were expected to be quite short, only a quarter of an hour. Not long enough, even, to warrant the visitor removing their things.

 

 

Both of her guests had taken off their hats and gloves.

 

 

This did not bode well.

 

 

“This is quite a snug little room.” Katrina ventured. “Comfortable. Warm, I imagine. When fire is going.” Veronica gave her another, even more strained smile.

 

 

“Quite comfortable.” Veronica allowed. “And more than adequate for the needs of my father, Miss Mackenzie and I.”

 

 

“ _Miss_ Mackenzie? She is not your housekeeper?”

 

 

“My lady’s maid.” Veronica answered.

 

 

“Oh. Yes, of course. Your hair is fixed quite handsomely.” Katrina sighed. “My own maid had been quite ill of late. She has not even been able to leave her room since the night we arrived.” Katrina reached up and gently touched her hair. “Mrs. Landros lent me hers to fix my own hair so I might be able to pay calls.”

 

 

If another had made such a claim Veronica were had viewed it as a rather feeble excuse. But Veronica could almost imagine Katrina sitting in her room, bemoaning her inability to leave as there was no one to dress her. Or, at the very least, she could if she had not already been told that Katrina had been seen about town.

 

 

“Mrs. Landros? I did not know you were well acquainted?”

 

 

The Landros family were one of those well-established gentry families, who, having never gained a title themselves, had grown to believe the French origin of their name was a far more worthy mark of distinction. In another town or village, they would no doubt have been the preeminent family. In Norton, this ambition was had been thwarted by so near a presence of two families who did have titles.

 

 

Mrs. Landros late Husband, Charles Landros, had inherited his family seat, The Grande not long after he had come down from Cambridge. His father, along with the previous Lord Kane, had seen the potential for Norton’s advancement as sea-bathing gained popularity. It was Mr. Charles Landros himself, however, who had truly made use of this potential and cultivated Norton into the seaside resort it now was.

 

 

He had also made a great deal of money in the process. For, in spite of being a gentleman, he had proved to be particularly shrewd in both his promotion of Norton and in his negotiations with those who let his land.

 

 

“We _were_ neighbours once.” Katrina said by way of explanation. “Of course, I had originally thought to stay at the Alpha. But when Lydia,” She gestured towards her companion, “told Mrs. Landros of our plans she insisted we to stay with her.” Katrina then took out a handkerchief from her ridicule, and began to dab at her dry eyes, “It was just so kind.” She let out a sigh. "But then, I suppose she would understand how lonely and melancholy this season can be. She too is a widow.”

 

 

Veronica had some difficulty imagining Mrs. Landros as either that kind or that sentimental about her late husband. But Veronica could allow that Mrs. Landros might indeed be quite lonely she was in her widowhood.

 

 

Mr. Charles Landros had spent the greater part of his life as the object of the mothers of Norton and beyond who were attempting to find an advantageous marriage for their daughters.  As well, of course, as more than a few of the young ladies themselves.

 

 

When he returned from a trip to the continent with a very beautiful, very foreign bride it had necessarily led to great deal disappointment. And with disappointment came resentment, followed in due course by rumours.

 

 

But the new Mrs. Landros had smiled, and thrown parties and done all the things expected of a woman in her new position. This, along with, perhaps, her husband’s position as the owner of the land on which rested a great many of the fashionable squares and well-appointed townhouses throughout Norton, had gained her some measure of acceptance within Norton’s society.

 

 

When Mr. Charles Landros had died in a hunting accident (one that Veronica was fairly sure was truly an accident) most had expected their young son to inherit The Grande with its associated lands and one of the boy’s uncles or cousins take on business of running it. He had inherited. Some. But his mother had been bequeathed a far larger portion than was usual and gained a life-interest in the rest. She had also made it clear, even while in the deepest mourning, that she would not allow interference in their running.

 

 

Mr. Landros, it seemed, knew his wife far better than most would have given him credit for. In the years since his death she had proved herself an even more able negotiator and promotor than her late husband. But this had, Veronica would imagine, lost her no small portion of that already reluctantly given acceptance.

 

 

“I imagine the Christmas season could be quite a difficult,” Veronica ventured, “When one is mourning.”

 

 

“Oh no, not Christmas.” Katrina said, “I was referring to it being so near to the anniversary of the day when I and my dear husband wedded.” She gave a sigh. “It was such a lovely day. So much of society came to the wedding breakfast. Sir Aaron hired a new chef for the occasion. Everyone talked of it for weeks. But surely you remember that as well. You were so close to Logan and the Kanes.”

 

 

Veronica wondered if one could break one’s jaw simply by clenching it.

 

 

“I am afraid I was not acquainted with the particulars.” Veronica bit out. “It was quite soon after Lady Lillias’ death.” Only a few months after, in fact. Long before she had reconciled with either Logan or with Lady Lillias’ brother.

 

 

“Oh, yes. I remember now. Logan was having a flirtation with that girl. What was her name?” She paused a moment before declaring. “Well, what does it signify. He was always in the midst of some flirtation after Lady Lillias. I do think he had a different attachment each time I visited.”

 

 

After this statement, Katrina seemed to have a rare, possibly singular, moment of understanding. This was perhaps not the thing to say to a man’s future wife. 

 

 

“Not now of course. He is quite devoted to you.” She paused yet again before adding “And he is so changed since his return from France.”

 

 

It seemed that her moment of understanding was not, perhaps, one of very good understanding.

 

 

“Imprisonment does have a tendency to do so.” She bit out.

 

 

“Oh, it is hardly as if he was in the Bastille.” Katrina said with a dismissing gesture. “Although I suppose they don’t imprisoned people in the Bastille now, do they?”  

 

 

Veronica clasped the arms of her chair so strongly she thought it a wonder that they did not break. Before she could properly direct her ire toward Katrina, however, her guest was from saved by an opportune sob from her companion. Followed by a quiet wail.

 

 

“You should not speak so lightly of such things.” Mrs. Lamontagne heaved out in a voice nearly unintelligible between sobs.

 

 

“Oh, my dear Lydie!” Katrina reached over and grasped Mrs. Lamontagne hands. “I did not mean to dismiss what you have endured!”

 

 

No. Such a dismissal was suitable only for the man she had been brought up with.

 

 

“Lydia’s father,” Katrina leaned closer and said with what Veronica suspected was an attempt at a whisper, “was guillotined.” Lydia let out another cry. Katrina hastily added, “She and her mother only just avoided the same fate.” Katrina then turned toward the other women, offering her affected and slightly awkward ministrations. Veronica watched the agitated woman and her clumsy comforter for a moment, uncertain where each’s artifice ended and true sentiment began.

 

 

“I think I will check on the tea.” She finally declared, and retreated towards the kitchen. 

 

 

Footman were hired and paid based upon with their height and handsomeness. It seemed that Katrina had more funds for wages than Veronica believed, for this footman appeared to have an abundance of both. He was also sitting rather comfortably close to a seemingly charmed Miss Mackenzie.

 

 

No progress on the tea was in evidence.

 

 

At the sound of the kitchen door, Miss Mackenzie looked up and, seeing Veronica, gave her a pointed glare.

 

 

Veronica backed slowly out of the kitchen.

 

 

In the short time that Veronica had been thus occupied, Mrs. Lamontagne’s hysterics had ended and she and Katrina were speaking together in a true whisper.

 

 

Fearing that they would soon end the call. And questioning what her life now was that she would fear such a thing, Veronica concluded that perhaps a little _less_ subtlety was now in order.

 

 

“It seems the tea is not quite ready.” Veronica said, with false cheer. “Perhaps, while we wait you might look at something for me?”

 

 

“Of course!” Katrina exclaimed, then fixed on Veronica was Veronica suspected was an attempt at a knowing smile. “Is it for the wedding?” Veronica, never one to disregard a lie so easily handed to her, gave a smile of her own.

 

 

“In a way.” Veronica once again moved to her writing desk, and unlocked the small side and took out the ring, holding it up to Katrina.

 

 

“I was wondering what you might know of this.” Katrina took the ring and examined it while Veronica examined her. Katrina showed no signs of recognition. It was possible, of course, she was simply affecting ignorance. But Veronica had watched several of the private theatricals put on at the Abbey. Katrina was not that good a player. Veronica could not dismiss her altogether, however. She would not be altogether surprised if Katrina had simply forgotten she had previously stolen the piece

 

 

“Pretty. If a touch old fashion.” Katrina finally said “Did Logan gift it to you?”    
 

 

“I believe it was his mothers.” Veronica told her, in place of an answer.

 

 

“Yes. The Baroness Logan did have a number of older, inherited pieces. She did not wear them often.” She frowned slightly. “Sir Aaron always preferred her in the far more fashionable jewels, he had purchased.” Veronica suspected this preference was less a mark of taste than an attempt by Sir Aaron to remind the Baroness Logan that _he_ was the one who control their purse--- and to _not_ be reminded that her family was the source of the title and lands.

 

 

“You wouldn’t happen to remember if there were others in the set? I am planning my wedding clothes you see.” Veronica asked.

 

 

“No.” Katrina said, giving the ring back to Veronica. “As I mentioned, she rarely wore them. And I did give them a great deal of attention when she did.” Katrina then paused, seemingly fixed in a moment of indecision. After that moment she added “But I doubt Logan would still possess the entire set”

 

 

“Why is that?” Veronica asked with feigned innocence.

 

 

“Well,” Katrina once again leaned in “My understanding, is that few of the older pieces were left amongst the Baroness’ things at the time of her death. Not from personal knowledge of course.” She added hastily, “Sir Aaron discovered it.”

 

 

“Were they stolen?” Veronica asked, impressively managing to retain her affectation of naivetein spite of Katrina’s inelegant, unintentional confession. Katrina appeared to ponder the question a moment before speaking.

 

 

“It is possible I suppose. She did dismiss quite a few maids. And of course, there was that incident with the housekeeper. Right before my wedding too…”

 

 

Recognising the commencement of a rant, Veronica decided it best to intervene and direct Katrina back towards the question at hand.

 

 

“But you do not think so?” 

 

 

“I would hate to speak ill of the dead,” Katrina said, with more than a hint of pleasure, “But the Baroness Logan was quite fond of cards.” Katrina leaned in closer still, “There were times. When Sir Aaron was not at home. When she would host Faro Parties. With professional bankers.” Katrina sat back with a hint of a smile. “Quite illegal you know.”

 

 

Quite illegal, yes. But also, quite fashionable. The Duchess of Devonshire had been known to do the same and towards the end of the last century there had been several ladies from among the peerage who had gained additional income by using their house for regular gaming parties and acting as the bank.

 

 

“I had no idea!” Veronica exclaimed. Katrina gave Veronica an attempt at a sympathetic smile. Perhaps Veronica should have participated in the Abbey’s amateur theatricals herself.

 

 

Following this revelation, the conversation turned back towards more the more usual, insipid topics of a call.

 

 

Thankfully, Miss Mackenzie soon entered with the tea. Less thankfully she also entered with the remaining minced pies, that had been their intended nuncheon. Katrina and Mrs. Lamontagne both quickly finished this repast and took their leave.

 

 

Once they were gone, Veronica turned towards Miss Mackenzie with a raised brow.

 

 

“I wasn’t flirting.” Miss Mackenzie immediately stated. Veronica raised her brow higher, leading Miss Mackenzie to further explain.

 

 

 “I was gathering information.” At that Veronica smiled.

 

 

“And, what did you discover?”

 

 

****

 

 

It seemed that Katrina had not intended to spend Christmas in Norton. As little as a fortnight ago, in fact, she had seemed quite fixed at the country estate of her late husband’s family and gave every appearance of intending to spend the season there with her children, their Uncle and his family. After a disagreement with her host, however, she had been made to feel obliged to remove herself from the household for a time.

 

 

The choice of Norton as her new residence was less surprising. She had planned to visit Norton in the spring. The falling out had simply hastened her arrival. More interesting, however, was the fact that the original idea to visit Norton, had come in large part from her lady’s maid, who, it seemed, repeated voiced both her own desire to see the town and her belief that its waters would improve her mistress’ health since her hiring.

 

 

This made it more than a bit ironic that this same maid had fallen ill the very night the party had arrived at The Grande. It had originally been supposed Miss Bryant was simply a poor traveller. When she showed no signs of rallying after more than a day of rest, however, Mrs. Landros, fearing a contagion had had her moved to a small room in a little use area of the servant’s wing. There she had apparently remained for the visit thus far.

 

 

Both Veronica and Miss Mackenzie had been slightly surprised Miss Bryant had not been dismissed. They could not quite decide whether this was a genuine act of kindness, an indication that the maid had hold over Katrina or if this was part of scheme to compel Mrs. Landros to allow the party to remain at The Grande through the season.

 

 

As for the initial invitation to stay at The Grande, this was, as Veronica had already speculated, issued due to the acquaintance of Mrs. Lamontagne with Mrs. Landros, rather than any neighbourly sentiments towards Katrina. And had been given far more reluctantly given than Katrina had suggested.

 

 

Finally, while Katrina had left several calling cards with households earlier in the week, she had not received any calls in return and otherwise claimed to be content with only her companion and her hostess for company. She had also visited a few shops since her arrival. What this may signified for her inquire, Veronica remained unclear.

 

 

The rest of what Miss Mackenzie had discovered did not expand greatly upon what Veronica had herself learned or inferred.

 

 

Following this examination of the information gained from their respective visitors, Miss Mackenzie and Veronica ate what remained of the mince pies and tea. Miss Mackenzie then remained in the sitting room to work on her most recent calculation received in the post, while Veronica removed herself to their room upstairs, to read Logan’s letters.

 

 

Each of the letters Logan had written her since he had left for the Peninsula, bore a number in the corner, marking the order in which it was written and informing her if one were missing. The blotted letter did, as the post-master suggested, bare the earlier number and it was with it that she began.

 

 

For the greater portion of the sheet, the letter resembled the others she had received since his departure. Neat lines of fine, close writing expressed his wishes that this letter found her well and assured her that he was now in heath, in spite of the fever and illness that continued to plague the camp. There was an anecdote detailing the attempts by a particularly vain Cornet to ride one of the new mounts which ended with his face down in the mud.  A description of the animals, flora and views seen during his most recent expedition out of camp. Written so generally as to give little hint as to where, precisely, he had been traveling.  Several inches dedicated to a description of his ardent love for her and hopes for their reunion--- written in such language and detail as to make her particularly grateful she had not offered to share any portion of the letters aloud during Katrina’s call.   

 

 

At almost the point where a quarter of the sheet remained, however the letters became rushed. It filled the remainder of the page, before curling around the edge of the sheet, finally cross hatching over parts of the previous text.

 

 

In reading this portion of the letter, Veronica became all the more gratified she had wait to read the missive in private, if for decidedly different reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented or kudoed. I am so I haven't had the chance to reply individual yet. I really do appreciate any feedback you can give me. Thank you again.


	7. Mid to Late November Near the Guadiana River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for continuing to read this increasingly unseasonal and misnamed story! 
> 
> I have chosen to take Jane Austen's lead when cursing in this chapter. 
> 
> I have also been somewhat purposefully vague about Logan's regiment --- Partly because, while, I have tried to do research, there are a people who are really knowledgeable and really particular about Napoleonic War history. Partly because there was no single regiment that did all the things I wanted Logan to do. I have also created (resurrected?) a regiment for a side character to use for my own purposes. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Veronica had given Logan a small parcel of raven feather pens before he had left for the Peninsula. She had joked that their colour seemed was more apt for a man going to war than goose.

 

Such pens were also known for being sturdy and flexible. It was why they were favoured for sketches, or when one needed to write in a small, neat hand. 

 

After months away, he now had only four of these treasured pens left, and had been trying to nurse use out of each pen as long as possible. Beyond possible, it seemed.

 

It only took a touch too much pressure for the nib to bend back at an odd angle, then give way, sending ink spreading and forming blots across sheet. 

 

“D--- it!” Logan looked up, but thankfully an officer’s mess is full of curses. His had not even been noted. At least he would not have to add being made sport of to his vexation. 

 

He was so tired. 

 

He had spent most of the last fortnight gathering information on the lay of the land and the allegiances of the people in an area that had been thought might provide an alternative route if. No. When the army would retreat to the Portuguese border. All he had seemed to accomplish, however, was to confirm his guide’s belief that the British were poor cooks.

 

When Logan had finally arrived back at headquarters, he had wanted simply to give his report and return to his billet for a warm meal and something that could at least make pretensions to be called a bed. 

 

Instead, He had found himself agreeing to dine with a friend whose mess was nearer to headquarters than his own, in the hopes of sooner meal and a better chance to have his letter to Veronica sent with the next group of dispatches. 

 

Perhaps he should have chosen the bed.

 

After doing what he could to keep the ink from spreading further, he looked to the pen itself, holding it up to the light, to try and determine if it would possible to trim it back again, or if he should simply accept the loss. 

 

Logan felt, more than saw, the other officer approaches him. His first instinct was to disregard him. But Logan was trying, was always trying, to not be the sort of man who would leave a fellow officer, or a fellow soldier for that matter, awkwardly waiting when he so clearly hoped to speak to him. 

 

He nodded for the man to sit and began putting his thing back into his leather writing desk 

 

Logan noted, as he did so, that the other officer’s uniform showed him to be from one of the infantry regiments. The man’s his facings, however, were not familiar, and Logan couldn’t place him or why he might be lingering near him. Finally, the man spoke.

 

“Lord Logan?” Logan nodded again, closing the desk. 

 

“Lieutenant Cobbleigh of the 107th foot.” The man. Cobbleigh, said by way of introduction.

 

“I hadn’t realized we had a 107th foot.” The quip fell from Logan’s mouth without thinking. He knew such a comment would vex a fair number of officers, Cobbleigh, however, seemed amused. Logan’s hopes for the interview improved.

 

“We did not. It was reformed a few months ago. Most of us are coming in from the militia or poor souls,” he said, gesturing towards himself, “Who transferring in hopes of a better chance of promotion in a newer regiment.” 

 

The most common way, of course, for an officer to gain a promotion was through purchase. But there still needed to be a position open to be purchased. And, there were also a fair number of officers who could only rely on seniority, heroism or luck to move them up the ranks. For such men, the ascent was slow, especially in older, more established regiments that attracted those who could purchase promotion. 

 

The war had quickened the pace. Deaths and injuries created vacancies. But if one was one was willing trade the prominence for rank, war also created new opportunities without the need to step into dead men’s shoes through the creation of new regiments and the addition of new battalions to old ones, creating positions as long as. 

 

“It seems you have gambled well then. Congratulations, Lieutenant.” Logan told him. The man nodded his thanks.

 

“I have heard you are due congratulations as well.” Cobbleigh responded with a slight, awkwardness. “on your engagement.” 

 

“Thank you. I am truly blessed.” 

 

“You say that with more sincerity than most.” Cobbleigh noted with some surprise.

 

“I am more blessed in my intended than most.” Logan responded, “but I doubt you searched me out simply to offer congratulation.” Cobbleigh shook his head.

 

“No. I am afraid I’ve come on far more melancholy business.” Cobbleigh shifted slightly in his seat. “I lost one of my company to this fever that’s been of the men two days ago. He had been my person servant, before the order in March. I had arranged for him to come with me into the 107th.” Cobbleigh looked down slightly for a moment, as if overcome. “He was hardly conscious by the end.”

 

Officers were traditionally allowed to choose, one of the soldiers within their regiment to act as their personal servant or bâtman. Odd through it might seem, it was a much sought position. In exchange for caring for the officer’s things and helping to prepare his meals the servant received an extra shilling a week in pay and was excused from drill. There were also other less official benefits, such as access to better food and a better chance of promotion. 

 

It had been determined, however, that the practice was taking too many men away from their usual duties and in March of this year orders had been given that those Officer’s and men heading to the Peninsula were to end such arrangements. 

 

But a familiarity, even a friendship, often formed between such pairs, and such connections were not quickly severed, order or not. Indeed, often they would reach well beyond the officer or soldiers time in the army, with the officer’s servants becoming the gentleman’s valet or butler. If they both lived.

 

“I am sorry.” Logan offered. 

 

Cobbleigh gave Logan a watery smile.

 

“I had hoped to return his things to his family.” He explained, “But in truth, he said precious little about his life before the army that might help me find them. I know is that he grew up along the coast, somewhere in Sussex, I think. And that he was raised with several cousins, but as to where they would be now, I am at a loss.” 

 

“Why did you come to me?” Logan asked.

 

“He had spoken of you. When you were mentioned in the papers.” Cobbleigh said suddenly seeming slightly embarrassed. “With some familiarity.” 

 

“I take from your countenance it was not in praise.” Logan said raising his brow. Cobbleigh shrugged. 

 

“He was in his cups.” Cobbleigh then asked, “Your family seat is in Sussex I believe? I thought perhaps he may have worked for your family once.” 

 

“Which would explain the want of praise.” Logan said with a wry smile. “Oakhollow Abbey is indeed in Sussex, near Norton. Perhaps, if you told me his name?” 

 

“John Taylor.”

 

Logan shook his head. It did not seem familiar, but then, there had been rather long period of his life when he would not have known the faces of everyone who worked for his family, let along the names. Pity he had not had a more singular name, if Cobbleigh known that, and even just rough idea of where this John Taylor had been raised. Wait.

 

“You don’t believe that was his real name.” Logan concluded. Cobbleigh looked away. 

 

“I may have gained the impression he had something in his past he didn’t wish to be known. But,” he added quickly, “Whoever he may have been. Whatever he may have done. In the end he was a fine soldier. And a good man. His deserves to have his family know what became of him.”

 

Logan wondering for a moment if this was true, of if Cobbleigh simply knew enough of Logan’s own history to understand this was a sentiment he would easily sway him.

 

“Is there anything else he might have said that would assist in finding them? Anything at all? It could be something small.” Logan asked. Cobbleigh appeared to think for a minute. 

 

“He did mention a sweetheart once.” He said slowly, “Cath, or Cat? Cathy? I’m not sure.”

 

Even if Cobbleigh could remember the precise variation of the name, Logan doubted it would help a great deal. Catherine in its many forms was a very popular name. Logan himself knew perhaps half a dozen woman or girls who might be called by one of these. He was godfather to two.

 

“And, Taylor,” Cobbleigh let out a long breath “He once made a joke that struck me. He, said that he had spent half his childhood praying at a Temple to Venus. I took him to mean he had spent a great deal of time in a house of ill repute. In truth, I thought it somewhat strange, given that he carried a Bible with him, even on campaign.” Cobbleigh let out let out a huff, but his strained smiled looked almost fond. “When I said as much, he found it even more amusing.” 

 

Logan could understand the supposition but not why Cobbleigh would find such a statement odd. More than a few disorderly houses were present in Norton. And, Logan knew, a great deal more than a few men who patronized them still spent each Sunday in church, listening to his brother Charles’ sermons. 

 

“There was something else as well.” Cobbleigh added slowly. “Something he said towards the end.” Cobbleigh paused, as if trying recollect. “He was barely making sense but he did say something about wishing he could have seen Pyrenees. I suppose we all wish we could live long enough to get over those mountains and take the fight to Old Boney.” Cobbleigh smiled a little himself at the thought. “But what struck me was he was so particular. He said he wished he could see Navarre.”

 

“Navarre? Are you sure?” 

 

“I thought it peculiarly particular.”

 

“Could he have said Navarro?” 

 

“Why would he say Navarro? Whatever does that mean?” 

 

“A Mrs. Navarro and her family worked for my family for many years. Many of her relations still live in or near Norton.” 

 

“You believe Taylor wished to see one of these Navarros rather than Navarre?” 

 

“I would seem the more the likely choice.” Logan pointed out dryly. “Has he already been buried?” 

 

“It’s been two days.” Cobbleigh said, beginning to show some vexation. 

 

“His things?” Logan asked.

 

“I have managed to keep the wolves away. For now.”

 

“I would very much like to see them.”

 

****

 

A soldier’s personal effects were generally sold off at his death to pay off his debts or provide for his family.

 

From his shako to his boots Taylor’s things, however, remained untouched. Just as Cobbleigh promised. Logan looked over each, pulling out pockets, checking for false heels and feeling the linings for anything that might reveal something of their former owner. Cobbleigh watched. 

 

When Logan was finished, separated the lot into two piles. One contained those things given to or bought by nearly every private soldier; things which would give little clue as to the man’s true name and likely hold little sentiment to his family. The other contained everything else. This second pile was considerably smaller. 

 

Logan came to the conclusion that it would be best to take some to examine each. When he wasn’t quite so tired. And, if possible, alone.

 

“How much do you think these would get if sold?” Logan asked, gesturing down at the smaller pile. 

 

“Why would you wish to know that?” Logan had to fight to keep from making a face.

 

“I would like to purchase them.” 

 

This, oddly, seemed to stir Cobbleigh from vexed to agitated.

 

“Now see here. Taylor was my man --- my friend. I asked you to help in finding his family, not to take his things. If anyone is to purchase them, it should be me.”

 

Logan stared at Cobbleigh. Surely if the man had read of Logan in the papers, he must know Logan knew someone with a head for investigation? Even if he did know the particulars?

 

“In Norton there is someone who has a great deal of experience in discovering the truth of things. Someone who is well acquainted with the Navarros and who I trust entirely. I plan to send Taylor’s things. I believe that is our best chance of finding his family. If that is, as you profess, what you truly wish, I would suggest you allow me to do so.”

 

For a moment Logan thought Cobbleigh would object. But then, the moment passed and with it his anger and agitation seemed to collapse. 

 

“Might I at least keep Taylor Bible, for a day or so? I had thought to copy out several of his favourite passages.” 

 

“Of course.” Logan said with some relief. 

 

A Sergeant was already arranging the sale of Taylor’s uniforms. Logan gave what he was sure was far too much money for the bundle of personal items. Then, finally, he was able to seek out that bed.

 

****

 

Cobbleigh, did indeed bring Logan the Bible a few days later. Logan took the opportunity to ask him several questions his too fatigued mind had not thought of during their first meeting and then promised to keep Cobbleigh informed of any new discoveries. 

 

Afterwards, Logan sat down in his own officer’s mess and laid out all the little bits of John Taylor’s life he now had in his possession. 

 

The first object of real interest was a large, nearly grey sheet of paper folded as one would a letter. Inside was a lock of hair tied with a ribbon. The ribbon, had been quite fine and pink. It was now, however, quite stiff and faded from the sun and from someone’s frequent touch. The hair it bound was light but given the state of the ribbon, the lock may well have started a darker shade.

There was pencil, but no pens or ink. A pair of hand carved dice. A few coins. A cross-belt plate bearing the insignia of what Logan took to be his former regiment.

 

And, then of course there was the Bible. 

 

Near a third of the men who joined the army’s ranks could not even sign their names. Even those who could, often could write now more. But that did not mean they could not read. Many, in fact, who took it upon themselves to teach the poor did so with the express singular purpose of allowing them to read the Bible for themselves. Logan wonders if Taylor had been a student of such a school, or if he had been lucky enough to be taught to form letters and numbers as well as understand them. 

 

The book itself was of appeared to be same standard translation one might find in any parish Church in England. A rather cheap copy at that, but one that would still have seemed quite dear on a private’s pay. There are sections marked with lines underneath, both in pencil and ink. But if these are Taylor’s favourite passage Logan was at a loss as to why. 

 

Most soldiers were drawn towards passages from which they could draw comfort and strength. Or which might give their loved ones the same should they be killed. Some looked for words which would remind them of why they fought. Some simply spent a great deal of time on the Song of Songs. Taylor did not seem to have done any of these. His passages were trifling. Capricious. Sprinkled throughout both the Old and New Testament without any method or theme. To Logan’s eyes at least. 

 

He could only hope Veronica could make more sense of them, and of all of this, than he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has kudoed or reviewed. Any kind of feedback means so much to me. I've been having some problems with my computer, so I'm trying to get those chapters I have already written (or mostly written) edited and up while it holds out. I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to respond to people's comments personally for a while, 
> 
> Thank you again. Comments really make my day and my motivation! Please let me know if you notice anything or want to know more about something, good or bad.


	8. December 29th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to start off by correcting a small mistake I made with the timeline. The previous chapter should be labeled as Late to Mid November. I will be correcting this and hopefully it will not cause any confusion going forward. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for being patient with this fic. More patient than me sometimes really! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Veronica was not the only one to receive a letter from Logan in the latest packet from the Peninsula. When Mr. Randall arrived in morning to ask again for her father’s assistance he revealed that Logan had, among other business matters, informed him that Veronica might require his particular attention on a new inquiry.

 

 

Or might instead offer him advice on who else might be hired to take on investigation in her stead.

 

 

As though she would allow that to happen.

 

 

Unfortunately, it seemed the only assistance Mr. Randall could offer was that of access to funds to pay for expenses.

 

 

Mr. Randall had not resided in Norton at the time of Mrs. Navarro’s tenure as housekeeper at the Abbey and while he knew some of those who had served the family during that time, many had not remained in Norton.

 

 

In a town such as Norton with so many visitors, those in service, already likely to change positions or leave service altogether with fair regularity, often found new positions with families whose main residence was a fair distance away or fell in with the tradesman or other servants that arrived to serve those visitors, and left at the end of the season.

 

 

Mr. Randall did not recall a John Taylor. And the description Logan had, eventually, received from Lieutenant Cobbleigh, was common enough that it could be said to both fit any number of men, but none in particular.

 

 

Veronica thanked Mr. Randall all the same, and set out after his departure toward the Navarro blacksmith shop.

 

 

Logan had not trusted the post with the package containing Taylor’s things. He instead hoped to send them in the care of one the officers that seemed sure to be soon invalided home. While the recent loss of Logan’s letter seemed proved this may be wise, it also meant Veronica was left with only the description of these items, and a second hand description of the man himself with which to begin her search.

 

Veronica was not as sure as Logan appear to be that John Taylor was a relation of the Navarros. However, Eli Navarro was still the most likely of those now living in Norton to know both where what remained of his family now lived, and who might have it something on their conscious that would lead them to seek one of the Navarros in their last fevered moments.

 

 

In any country village or town, a blacksmith who knew his job will always a respected among the community. Or at least the farmers, labourers, fisherman, artisans and tradesman, all of whom required his services to make and mend their tools.

 

 

Even in Norton, where fortunes depended more on the ebb and flow of the social season than the weather a smith would always have some work.

 

 

Although the hour was still early for her, it was clear the forge at the Navarro shop had already been lit for hours by the time she arrived. The small smoky building was warm when she entered, almost unpleasantly, in spite of the cold winter weather outside its walls.

 

 

Veronica found her quarry hammering at a quantity of metals whose shape was still so undefined as to make it impossible to determine what, eventually, it was to become.

 

 

He looked up briefly as she entered giving her a nod to wait as he worked the piece. Only when it had become too cold and needed to placed again in the fire did he stop, sending his apprentice outside with a word, and give her his attention.

 

 

“Now. What sort of favour are you looking for today?” He asked.

 

 

“Why do you think I want a favour?”

 

 

“Your countenance.” He countered. “It’s one I’ve seen it often enough to know what follows. So, what’s it to be? Tell me, it’s not for that man of yours, at least.”

 

 

“I’m hoping to find the family of a man. He was using the name John Taylor, but that could be an alias. He was raised near Norton and may have worked at the Abbey while your grandmother was housekeeper.”

 

 

“What’s he done?”

 

 

“He died.” Mr. Navarro’s eyes narrowed.

 

 

“Then who hired you?”

 

 

“He was a Private in the 107th Regiment of Foot. I’ve been asked to return his effect his family.” Mr. Navarro’s frown turned into a scowl.

 

 

“So, it is for Lord Logan.”

 

 

Before she could answer, he turned and reached for his hammer.  Taking another piece of metal out of the forge he began to furiously work at it. The ringing of metal on metal forcing her to scream her retort in order to be heard.

 

 

“It’s for the man’s family.” She shouted. “For his sweetheart.” Mr. Navarro gave her a sidelong, knowing glare.

 

 

“And why.” He said, measuring his speech to land between rings. “Should I.” “Care.” “About.” “These not-Taylors.” “Or some fool girl.” “Who fell in love.” “With a soldier.” Now it was Veronica’s turn to glare.

 

 

“Because his final wish.” She said, shouting still, “Was to see to your Grandmother.”

 

 

At _that_ he stilled.

 

 

After a moment of silence, he thrust the piece back into the fire and turned to her again.

 

 

“Explain.”

 

 

“Towards the end, when he was delirious with fever, he said he wished to see Navarro again.”

 

 

“So, a Navarro, not my grandmother.” Mr. Navarro said dryly.

 

 

 “A Navarro who meant enough to a man, who grew up by the sea, and worked at Oakhollow Abbey, that when he was mad with sickness, he called out for them.”

 

 

Mr. Navarro considered this a moment, then let out a long sigh in resignation.

 

 

“I’ll need more than a name that most likely wasn’t his.”

 

 

“He was of age with you, perhaps a bit older. Dark hair and eyes. Tan complexion. Tall, but not quite as tall as.” She paused, trying to remembered someone other than Logan that would be of a similar height, and within Mr. Navarro’s acquaintance.

 

 

“Not quite as tall as your Lord Logan.” Mr. Navarro finished for her. Veronica grimaced slightly.

 

 

“Quite.” She said, awkwardly. Mr. Navarro to frown.

 

 

“He spoke of being raised with several cousins. And of a sweetheart named Catherine or Kathleen.” She continued

 

 

Mr. Navarro gave a dry laugh.

 

 

“I know more of them, than I do John Taylors.”

 

 

“He can read.” She added.

 

 

“ _That_ does narrow it considerably.” He said, thinking on it.

 

 

“And he attended St. Cyprian Church. When he was a child” Veronica added with a slight hesitation.

 

 

Logan had not, of course, explicitly stated he had believed Taylor’s the joke to refer to a bawdy house but the slightly awkward phrasing within his first letter had made it evident. He had, it seemed, eventually, come to the understanding that John Taylor’s was more likely to have made a pun on St. Cyprian’s name. But this had only appeared in his second letter. Veronica naturally had already reached the same conclusion after reading the first.

 

 

“He can’t be one of my relations, then.” Mr. Navarro pointed out.

 

 

 Veronica was well aware of the Navarros Catholic faith., however:

 

 

“There are a fair number of employers who require their servants to attend services at the local protestant church each Sunday, regardless of what their personal conscience prefers.”

 

 

Mr. Navarro let out a huff.

 

 

“I may have a fair few complaints about Lord Logan’s family, but that was never among them.”

 

 

“Not all of your relations worked at the Abbey.” She pointed out.

 

 

“Do you truly think my grandmother would countenance such a thing? When she was so close at hand? No. None of my cousins…” He paused a moment then, as if interrupted by some stray thought, previously forgotten. He grimaced, and closed his eyes a moment as if in pain.

 

 

“No. I misspoke. I did have one cousin who attended St. Cyprian. Sometimes. But not because of an employer. His mother belonged to your church.”

 

 

“I can’t imagine your Grandmother countenancing that.”

 

 

“She was, _displeased_ with my uncle, sure enough. But, when his wife died, and he needed the help, she took on raising their children readily enough. Their eldest was the only one who remembered his mother very well. He would still go off on his own, some Sundays. In her memory I suppose.” He shook his head. Lost a bit in thought. “Or he might have just liked a chance to flirt with the girls there, as well as at St. Mary’s.”

 

 

“He was a bit wild.” He explained, “Even for my family…” he gave her a small smile. “At a certain point, my Grandmother was just thankful if he was with us more Sundays than not. Thought the rest would work itself out. For all the good it did her.” Mr. Navarro looked back up at Veronica then, no longer caught up in the memory. “But he can’t be your John Taylor.” He seemed then, to foresee her line of thought he added “He’s been dead nearly ten years now.”

 

 

Veronica considered Mr. Navarro’s words for a moment. But there really was no good way to ask a person if they were truly sure their loved one was dead.

 

 

Mr. Navarro let out another, long sigh. “I’ll ask around. See if anyone remembers a man like this not-John Taylor. Maybe you’ll be lucky.”

 

 

He walked over a few feet, then, to one of the open, bar covered windows and shouted for his apprentice. Then he stepped back, and picked up his tools.

 

 

She was dismissed.

 

 

****

 

 

Veronica met Miss Mackenzie in front of a one of the neighbouring shops. They had both concluded that arriving at the Navarro’s with a Lady’s Maid, no matter how nominal the designation, could prove disadvantageous.

 

 

Not to mention that someone had to make arrangements for tonight’s dinner, given that Miss Mackenzie had agreed with Veronica’s father in rejecting what she thought was the a very reasonable suggestion that they dine exclusively on pudding.

 

Veronica and Miss Mackenzie then turned towards the water, towards where Mr. Fennel was still working on the _Chance_ and spoke asked him to dine with them that night.

 

 

Veronica did not expect violence that evening --- she could not imagine that Miss Seymour’s admirer would revel himself to her at all, if he was planning to take the ring by force. However, she thought it prudent to have Mr. Fennel present in the event she was wrong. If only to restrain her father from doing something imprudent.

 

 

The rest of the morning was filled with preparation both for the week to come and for their possible guest tonight.

 

 

There was nothing of interest in the post. Nothing of particular importance among the London Daily papers.

 

 

Nothing worth note at the joint print-shop and booksellers she had discovered with Logan.

 

 

To her own significant vexation Veronica had yet to apprehend the identity of the artist that supplied the shop with its prints of more local interests. She had however, discovered that there had been a significant drop in both the quality and quantity of prints since she had begun her regular visits following Logan’s departure to the Peninsula.

 

 

Finally, they stopped to retrieve the cake from the confectioner and then returned home.

 

 

****

 

 

In truth, Veronica had not expected Miss Seymour’s admirer to answer her advertisement. It had been her initial scheme. She had planned and prepared for it. But it felt too simple. Too easy.

 

 

And so, she found herself surprise when a knock was heard at the kitchen door just before the appointed time.  

 

 

Miss Mackenzie once again gave Veronica a warning glare to remain seated and moved towards the kitchen. Veronica glanced towards where her father and Mr. Fennel sat, on the other side of the sitting room. Far enough to give some sense of privacy. Close enough to maintain propriety. Or, as she suspected, to intervene should their visitor attempt to harm her.

 

 

Miss Mackenzie returned only a moment later. It was, after all, a very _cosy_ house.

 

 

“A Mr. Horner is here to answer your advertisement.” She announced.

 

 

“The butcher?” That was not very promising for Miss Seymour. He must be fifty if he was a day.

 

 

“The butcher’s _son_.” Miss Mackenzie said, giving her a wry smile. “He works for his father.”

 

 

He would, be a fair enough match for Miss Seymour. Miss Seymour’s father was himself a tradesman and a butcher could do quite well, especially in a town with so many wealthy potential customers.

 

 

But what might seem like a good match did not mean a good match, or a good man in truth. Although Veronica supposed that would be for Miss Seymour to determine.

 

 

Veronica told Miss Mackenzie to bring him in and a moment later the very young man Veronica had seen at St. Cyprian’s the Sunday before walked in, looking slightly nervous. Veronica gave him a smile to reassure him. And gain a bit of his trust.

 

 

“Mr. Horner? Miss Mackenzie tells me you are here in regards to my advertisement?”

 

 

“Yes Ma’am.” Veronica may have given him an unintentionally glare. “Miss.” He corrected. “I believe I might have miscounted the houses. I meant to deliver the cake to Miss Seymour. “

 

 

“I hadn’t realized you two were courting.”

 

 

“I hoped we could begin courting.” He replied, sounding more unsure.

 

 

“That seems a dear gift for someone you only hope to court.” Veronica pointed out.

 

 

Mr. Horner paused a moment and looked around the room. To his credit he seemed to understanding this was, in fact, something of a test. But he did not seem to be particularly sure as to what the answer should be.

 

 

“Not so dear. Not for me.” He paused again, but after another moment apparent indecision, he spoke. “My Aunt is the housekeeper at The Grande. They have this custom. At Christmastide the chef, Monsieur Legros makes this grand Twelfth Cake,” he said, holding his arms wide as if to show its size. “It’s far too large to bake in one pan or at one time.  And far too large for just one man to decorate. So, they hold a contest of sorts, the day its being baked. The kitchen maids and dairy maids and whoever else thinks she might have a talent for it each gets a small plain cake and decorate it. The best gets to keep her cake and is rewarded with a bit more in her Christmas box.” He let out a little huff, “But really, it’s just to see if one or more of the maids can do the more tedious decorations on the main cake so Legros doesn’t need to. The other cakes are given out to steward, the butler and the housekeeper.”

 

 

“And your Aunt gave you her cake to give to Miss Seymour.” Veronica finished. Mr. Horner shrugged.

 

 

“My family tend to prefer pies and puddings really. I guess that’s what come of being butchers. We still ate the cake each year, of course. But this year, this seemed a better use.” He gave an awkward smile. “It was my Aunt’s suggestion.”

 

Oddly this made feel more secure of Mr. Horner’s intentions.

 

 

“Your aunt wasn’t concerned Mrs. Landros would discover she gave away her gift?” She couldn’t help but ask. Mr. Horner made a face.

 

 

“That great cake? The one that sits out through Twelfth Night? After Mrs. Landros and her guest eat their fill, what’s left is supposed to be given to the other servants. But each year since Mr. Landros died, Legros has sold off the rest instead.” He shook his head. “If Mrs. Landros doesn’t concern herself with that, she won’t concern herself with my gift.”

 

 

Veronica was not entirely sure of such reasoning. But, then, that wasn’t truly _her_ concern.

 

 

There was, however, still the matter of the ring.

 

 

"About the cake, Mr. Horner. I’m afraid we were compelled to eat it."

 

 

"To _eat_ it." Horner said, his countenance a mixture of agitation and confusion.

 

 

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other cake,” Veronica said, turning a little and lifting the covering from the purchased cake, “Which is about the same size, and quality and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?"

 

 

"I," Mr. Horner looked from the cake, to Veronica and then back again. “I can’t take that Miss. It’s far too fine. Far finer than my own.”

 

 

“Nonsense. Your cake was fine enough. In fact, I had hoped to ask you for the recipe.”

 

 

She gestured with her hand, towards the new cake, making sure the ring on her finger was fully visible.

 

 

He did give it a moment’s look.

 

 

“Miss…”

 

 

“We have the coin from the first cake if that’s your concern.” She added, watching his response. Horner shook his head no. “Please. It’s the least I could do having eaten your cake.”

 

 

Still somewhat uncertain, Horner moved forward and accepted the cake.

 

 

“Thank you.”

 

 

She gave him a nod and a smile.

 

 

“Thank you, Mr. Horner.” He nodded and moved to leave. As he did so, however, Veronica made a decision. “Mr. Horner?”

 

 

He paused and looked towards her.

 

 

“You did not miscount the houses.” She confessed. “Miss Seymour received your cake. But as your note did not include your name, she thought it improprieties to accept a gift from a stranger. She asked me to discover your identity.”  

 

 

“But, your cake…”

 

 

“Keep it. Please.” Veronica could almost feel the glare from Mr. Fennel several feet away. “I think it might be best if the next time you attempt a romantic gesture you did so in person?” She suggested.  Horner gave a blushed slightly and nodded.

 

 

“And Mr. Horner? If she decides not to return your affections, I suggest you accept her decision.” She told him. “Or I’ll know.”

 

 

At that he gave another nod. 

 

 

And hurried out through the kitchen with some haste.

 

 

****

 

 

Strictly speaking, Veronica’s inquiry was over. She had discovered Miss Seymour’s admirer. His response when offered the second cake was not a definitive as she would have wished but his general demeanor and her own instincts suggested to her, he had not known of the ring inside.

 

 

And yet, this meant she still did not know who had placed the ring in the cake. Or where and how they had received it. Or why it had found its way to Miss Seymour’s door.

 

 

There was also the question of who, now, the ring belonged to. She supposed Miss Seymour could claim, but without knowing its origin it seemed unwise for her to possess it. What if the ring had been stolen and the owner discovered Miss Seymour held it? She might well be prosecuted for its theft. Veronica, for all the enemies she may have in Norton, was, she acknowledged far less likely to suffer such consequences due to Logan implied protection.

 

 

No. Veronica would no longer be charging Miss Seymour fees, but the inquiry was not at its end. She would discover how the ring had come to be placed in the cake. If not for Miss Seymour’s peace of mind than for her own and for Logan.  

 

 

“It seems I will be returning _Katrina’s_ call after all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who kudoed or commented! As you may have already figured out, I really enjoy feedback. 
> 
> I hope no one was disappointed with the conclusion to this part of the mystery. 
> 
> I probably should also acknowledge that some of the dialogue in this chapter is a fairly direct homage to a Sherlock Holmes short story. 
> 
> Again, I hope you enjoyed it ... but I would love hear whatever you thought of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone for reading. I would really enjoy any comments or criticism you may have. Happy Holidays!


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